


Pierrot Lunaire

by magistralucis (Solitary_Shadow)



Series: The Consolations of Philosophy [3]
Category: Daft Punk
Genre: AU, Dialogue Heavy, Dirty Dancing, Dom!Thomas, Drug Use, Existentialism, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Human!Daft Punk, Light-Hearted, Literary References, M/M, NSFW, Philosophy, Slash, philosophical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-16 05:36:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 35,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1334032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Shadow/pseuds/magistralucis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of two French boys who meet only under the cover of darkness, their lives interweaving and becoming one through music, liquor, discourse and dance in the bustling everyday of early-1990s Paris. It starts by one getting punched out by the other, God bless. Pre-Homework era AU. [Two-parter, mostly fluff, extremely NSFW in the second part.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 01

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not know any of the members of Daft Punk, this is strictly a work of fiction and I do not profit from nor claim to represent true aspects of their lives in this story.**
> 
> The only reason this was a two-parter was because this was blowing up to be an incredibly long piece of work that simply could not be posted on Tumblr as a oneshot piece. The second part isn't quite done but will be updated soon. Again, much like Tabula Rasa, this is not a casual read - but I guarantee that it's much happier and even delightfully lighthearted! I hope you'll enjoy.

**Pierrot Lunaire (Part 01) - A Daft Punk Fanfiction**

\-----------------------------

The first night, Thomas enters a club and sees Guy, sitting by himself and downing a whiskey on the rocks.

“ _Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?_ " he asks.  
Guy punches him in the face, and goes back to drinking, unfazed.

Thomas leaves.

——-

The second night, Thomas decides to try and atone for the first night’s efforts _because holy shit, Bangalter, that was insanely stupid what the fuck is wrong with you._ Actual French people tend to be unmoved and/or grossly insulted by that phrase. What are you, _stereotyping?_  
He can’t believe it. Nothing short of a terribly written fanfiction could have made him do that, or so he thought, but that’s what’s happened. Guy is there, at the exact same spot as the previous day, when he enters the club; he glares at Thomas but says nothing, which is still miles better than being punched.

“ _Bonsoir,_ " he says, and lowers his gaze politely. "I know I’m probably the last person you want to talk to, but about yesterday. I honestly _don’t know_ what came over me. But that’s not an excuse - that punch, I really did deserve it. And I’m so sorry.”

Guy raises his eyebrows. “Hm,” his voice is low and unimpressed, but not angry. (It’s a nice voice.)

"I’d like to make it up to you. Could I buy you a drink?"

The long-haired man looks up at him sharply at that, eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion; Thomas is just thinking that he’s going to tell him to get lost again, though perhaps in actual spoken terms, before the other speaks up. “Whiskey on the rocks. Nothing else. _Merci_.”

"… Ah! _D’accord._ Come with me.”

“ _Zut alors_ , and _here_ we go,” Guy exclaims out loud, throwing his hands upwards and rolling his eyes. The taller man blinks, taken aback, but Guy’s already talking over him. “you _don’t know_ what came over you? You don’t? You _think_? Is that how you live your life, just wandering around from A to B without a single thought and asking random strangers for sex? Well, you’re not getting away with it tonight, either, do you think that I don’t _know_ what you’re trying to do?”

Thomas honestly doesn’t. “Uh.”

"It’s the same old cliché. You’ll buy me a drink and offer to get me another when I’m done, then you’ll sit close to me with your hand supporting the side of your face, listening to every word that I say because you think that I find good listeners extremely attractive like other people do. You’ll coax out my life story, supplementing with extra drinks every now and then, wading through all the usual hoops before you suggest getting to the good stuff. By the end of the night we’d end up knowing far too much about each other to just walk away, _oui?_ Then you’ll play the final gentleman card and offer to take me home - _what?_ You can fill in the blanks yourself, that’s what you have in mind! Tough luck, though, because I know the kind of tricks you’re up to-“

"I-"

"-And I tell you right now, I will _not_ ,” he’s stabbing Thomas on the chest with his finger for emphasis. “ _baisez-vous_ ,” stab. “ _avec ma bouche_!”

“ _What the Christ._ I don’t want you to _baise-moi avec_ anything. I literally just wanted to buy you a drink, I was being totally sincere.”

Guy snorts. “Of course, sincere in your attempt to coax me into bed.”

"Seriously! Serious as methanol. You know, when you don’t distill your moonshine properly. And you go blind. Or die. Death is pretty serious."

“ _Oh my God._ You’re really bad at this analogy thing, aren’t you.”

"I’ve been told as much," Thomas smiles weakly, and gestures towards the bar. "… I asked you to come with me because you so clearly don’t trust me in the first place - it’s best that the bartender gives you your drink himself, _non?_ ”

As much as he hates to admit it, that’s something Guy didn’t expect and can’t find a defensive answer for. As harsh as his exterior is, he’s actually a fairly reasonable human being; he only reacts this way to get people who he perceives as unsavory to leave him alone. Any other man might have stormed away by this point, offended - but Thomas actually stayed to offer a polite and sensible response, and that makes Guy think that his initial perceptions might have let him down this once. It’s by no means pleasant to be seen as somebody who’s out to dupe someone else, whether with numerous drinks or (God forbid) even _spiking_ them, and it says something about Thomas that he anticipated this and hastened to give Guy the most control over the situation as possible.

Now that _is_ serious. Not quite as serious as death, but serious enough.

Convinced of the other’s sincerity, Guy stands up and glowers at the other man. “You better not try anything funny,” he warns, and stalks forwards, leading the way to the bar first.  
Thomas follows. Something is taking its course.

——-

The third night, Thomas enters the club and orders a strawberry daiquiri. He is alone and the daiquiri is exquisite, and he’s enjoying it thoroughly despite the ache of the slight bruise on his face.  
Guy comes in when he’s about halfway through the drink, stares at him and his glass disparagingly, and orders a whiskey on the rocks. Then he sits to the right of the taller man, swirling the amber liquid and making it sparkle slightly in the lighting.  
  
They don’t speak.  
Guy drinks slowly, purposefully, clearly bothered by Thomas’s presence but not wanting to be ousted.  
Thomas is contemplating nothing quite as complex; no, just the nature of human suffering, the poverty threshold, and kittens. All is good.  
  
After two hours, he gets up and leaves.  
  
——-  
  
The fourth night, Guy is drinking whiskey on the rocks yet again. Thomas sticks to the daiquiri and asks for another spoonful of sugar, which earns him a mixed look of disbelief and contempt from the other which seems to say: _ugh, what a shamelessly girly drink._  
  
"What’s wrong with it, there’s nothing inherently negative about ‘girliness’," he thinks out loud, making Guy stare at him as if he were a lunatic. "you really should try one sometime. But it has to be a strawberry daiquiri, without the strawberry it’s just not the same."  
  
"As if I would!" Guy exclaims incredulously, looking disgruntled about even being spoken to, before hurriedly downing his drink and turning to the bartender. "can I get another?"  
  
Thomas smiles and shakes his head. It’s good to see that the determined spirit of the French Resistance still exists in this era.  
He pushes his glass away and leaves.  
  
——-  
  
The fifth night, Thomas enters the club and makes for the bar. Guy is drinking a strawberry daiquiri.  
  
"Well, _you’re_ the one who suggested it,” he snaps at Thomas without even being spoken to. His cheeks are pink from either the drink or embarrassment. The taller man contents himself with a perfectly innocuous smile and orders himself the same, and they sit there for a while, sipping awesome girly drinks together and staring at the wall, before Thomas finishes his and stands up to leave.  
  
"Wait."  
  
The taller man pauses. Guy isn’t looking at him, but is rather intensely surveying the sugar-rimmed glass in front of him. “… Will I see you tomorrow?”  
  
"Nothing’s for certain."  
  
"God _damn_ you, I was asking whether you were going to be here tomorrow, not about your bullshit indeterminism.”  
  
"Hey, I can’t exactly _rule out_ the possibility of me getting into an accident or a meteor wiping out Paris tomorrow,” Thomas laughs, rubbing the back of his head. Guy glares at him, but remains silent so that the other may continue. “but these are very unlikely. I’ll be here by - _quelle heure est-il?_ Ah. Half past eight, probably.”  
  
"Hm."  
  
"I’ll see you then?" Guy shrugs, though he does meet Thomas’s eyes and hold his gaze as a sign that he will. "excellent. _Au revoir._ ”  
  
"Wait."  
  
Thomas pauses again. Guy’s eyes flicker away from his face, then back. “About that bruise. Are you healing?”  
  
"Yes."  
  
” _Très bon_. I hope it gets better soon.”  
  
The younger man smiles and raises his hand in a half-wave before taking his leave. He doesn’t look back, not wanting to seem too eager; but because of that he misses that for the first time, Guy is watching him leave. The taller man still has a carefree smile about him, sleeves rolled up and his collar quirked slightly to the side as he turns the corner, opens the door, and slips outside as elegant as a cat. Only then does he look away, downing the last of his daiquiri with mild annoyance, wondering why he even cares at all.  
  
 _I don’t,_ is his immediate and incredulous response to that thought.  
And that’s perfectly logical. He doesn’t. Why should he? What’s he going to _do_ with Thomas when he comes, anyway?  
He doesn’t really know, himself. He suspects that he asked purely for consistency’s sake. To him Thomas merely looks like a boy, an annoying one at that, and he’s only giving him the time of day because he’s had the audacity to integrate himself into Guy’s routine. Even an unceremonious disruption must respected if it’s going to reoccur day after day. He sighs and glances towards the door again, almost imagining Thomas standing by it, though he must be long gone.  
  
"At half past eight," he mutters to himself. Then he pulls out a A6 diary from his jacket and makes a note of it.  
He’ll be there. He’s very little if not punctual.  
  
——-  
  
But Guy doesn’t see Thomas the night after that. He comes slightly earlier than his usual time and waits for longer, but the man simply never turns up. Guy is rightfully annoyed about it, though also disappointed, and that disturbs him; what’s _there_ for him to feel disturbed about?  
  
Perhaps it’s just down to feeling. His routine would have been disrupted with or without Thomas’s presence tonight; the seat the taller man usually would have taken, to Guy’s left, has been rendered temporarily unavailable. The bartender explains to him that the paint on the adjacent wall was flaking off, and they only just fixed that problem. And when people see a ‘Wet Paint’ sign, they tend to have an inexplicable urge to touch the paint to confirm that it _really is wet_ , hence why that seat has been corded off altogether.  
  
It’s, you know, like, no one _believes_ in objective truth anymore. Kind of sad.  
  
He and Thomas couldn’t have kept to their usual seats, anyway. But somehow he still finds himself oddly protective of the empty seat to his right. It’s all very strange and just annoys him even more. Surely his time is for better things, and that means that he can spend it downing his usual whiskey on the rocks and watching paint dry next to him. It must have been applied not too long ago; he half expected the patch to still smell half-acrid as paint tends to do, but that’s not the case. It might have been erased by the scent of perfume, alcohol and smoke, though, who knows. When Guy tilts his head slightly he can still see the shiny wet glow on the surface of the paint, the edges of it fading away slowly as the damp evaporates into air. When the bartender’s not looking he reaches out and quickly rubs at the very outermost edge of the patch with his little finger, relieved that it comes off dry; then he does a double take and laments what his life has come to. When did his life take such a downhill turn that he’s getting his joy for the night from a patch of pastel-blue paint?  
  
Ridiculous. He doesn’t even like pastel colours. Too muted. But whatever; none of this makes a huge impact in his life, the other’s life, or anyone else’s. He’ll go home soon and sleep before classes begin at seven in the morning.  
It’s an inevitable aspect of life that people have expectations that don’t get fulfilled; one can’t always have what they want, because if that were possible, the world would be too much of either an utopia or pandemonium to live in, and it is neither. Thomas is not here - next to Guy the chair is empty, there is a void, there is _nothingness_. But Guy could say the same for all the empty chairs in the club, because they hold the same kind of nothing; what’s so special about _that_ particular chair?  
  
Guy frowns and places his hand under his chin, scrutinizing the paint on the wall in an attempt to get his mind off the damned chair. No use. Small air bubbles have appeared on the surface of the paint, barely visible to the naked eye, but that alone isn’t enough to hold his interest. So he turns his gaze beside himself again (the bartender is giving him a distinctly odd look) and decides that the chair is not special in any way - at least, it  if he weren’t projecting the lack-of-Thomas onto it. There are a lot of things in this club right now, too varied to even list, but they all share the unified property of ‘not being Thomas’, and that’s really all it is. It doesn’t mean he ought to feel disappointed about it.  
  
That’s for the best. If everything _was_ Thomas, things would get extremely tiring very quickly. Guy raises his head and sips his whiskey, already feeling slightly better. It’s jazz night tonight at the club, which is immense comfort to Guy. When in doubt, one can always seek comfort in jazz, for its sheer rawness of feeling makes it authentic.  
  
A very wise man said that. (Namely, not me.)  
  
The tell-tale chords begin and melt away his worries, and he relaxes a little, though not enough to turn around and actually watch the performance. The vocalist doesn’t sound particularly experienced, and perhaps sounds too young, but the power in her voice is unmistakeable and he taps his fingers gently to the thrum of the music.  
  
 _Some of these days_  
 _You’ll miss me honey_  
  
He’s fairly sure this song went out of fashion decades ago.  
Or perhaps there is something everlasting about art? After all, people are still discussing classical epics and the paintings of Renaissance painters to this day, debating all kinds of things along the lines of whether Achilles is more heroic than everyone else or if the theme of _pieta_ is relevant in modern art and God knows what else. About suffering they were never wrong, the old masters.  
  
 _You’re gonna miss me honey_  
 _When I’m far away…_  
  
Tap. Tap. Jazz floats through the air, dreamy but insistent enough to assert itself in his mind. Perhaps Thomas would have liked it, perhaps not. In the case that he didn’t, it’s probably just as well that he stayed away for tonight. With that Guy finally speaks the truth out loud: “He’s not coming” - thankfully out of earshot from the bartender and anyone else, and feels immensely liberated for having admitted that to himself. But with liberation comes a crushing sense of emptiness and responsibility, which is something people don’t often tend to recognize. Free means that you are free to do as you will, but also that you can’t blame the consequences of those actions on anybody else but yourself. Free means that this strange hollow feeling that Guy is feeling - yes, right now - is no one’s problem but his own, and if he can’t do something about it, well, that’s just a darn shame.  
  
He shakes his head, frowning heavily. That damned boy.  
Guy doesn’t even _know_ his name. He’s just _there,_ the image of his smile provoking strange feelings inside him. And because Guy is far from a perfect human being, he thinks it fairly reasonable to resort to a degree of bad faith to avoid his problems. After all, a nightclub is hardly the place to have a complete existentialist revelation in.  
  
The paint has mostly dried and the wet glow of it is gone. Guy is tempted to poke at it with his finger, but holds back. To the bartender he says “I’d like another”, to the person asking him if the seat next to him is free he says “I’m saving that for someone” (because holding onto that _potential_ of Thomas-being-there, while hopeless, is still more comforting than not) and to the fourth wall he asks “what the hell are you looking at?” with a delicate frown intended towards the reader. The whiskey comes, it is just as good and unchanging as it always has been; moisture keeps on evaporating from the paint, as thermodynamics demands that it always does; and the fourth wall, it is laughing.  
  
What’s that? You’re not laughing?  
Well, still - do humour me for a while.  
  
There. That’s beautiful.  
  
——-  
  
Thomas isn’t there on the seventh night, either, though Guy has gotten over it by that point, and spends his time in the club exactly how he used to before the taller man intruded in his life. Alcohol is consumed, various aspects of his life are contemplated, he has a minimalistic conversation with the bartender - entirely routine. An unfamiliar man says hello to him when he’s swirling his second whiskey, and they engage in five minutes’ worth of idle discourse before the former moves on (sensing Guy’s inherent disinterest), and that’s the only thing that reminds him of Thomas for a moment.  
  
(But no longer than that.)  
  
(Really.)  
  
Guy would have been perfectly happy to continue in that way every night. At this point in time, Thomas’s presence or lack thereof matters significantly less to him than it will do in his future; Guy could have just dismissed him as an anomaly and eventually forgotten about him, and his life would have carried on with him not feeling as if he were lacking in anything. But while an admirable testament to the man’s character, all this speculation is merely what _could_ have happened; what _does_ happen is that when he walks into the club on the eighth night, casually lighting up the first cigarette of a brand new pack, he finds Thomas sitting in his usual seat and grinning at him as if he’s hit the jackpot.  
  
” _Bonsoir, étranger, et je suis très désolé,_ " he exclaims as he sees Guy, hurriedly getting up and moving to the adjacent seat. Guy blinks, the cigarette held still in his mouth as he tries to process the situation. "saved your seat for you. I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it the last two nights. Some last-minute schedule slips occurred-" he pats the now-empty seat, gesturing for the other to sit down. "-couldn’t avoid it - but that shouldn’t be happening again, not without notice. Sit down! Do sit."  
  
Half in a daze Guy does as asked, staring at Thomas in confusion for a moment before hastily looking away to ash his cigarette. It appears that they’ve been set down the same road for longer than he could reasonably predict, and quite honestly he doesn’t know what to feel about that. On one hand the appointment has finally been kept and Thomas is with him, but he never actually figured out what he wanted Thomas around for in the first place; unaware of this inner conflict the taller man just keeps on smiling at him, winking when he catches Guy’s eye.  
  
"… I don’t know what you find so funny," Guy says glumly. "nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I’ll grant you that, but-"  
  
"Unhappy? Oh, damn. It’s because of me, isn’t it?"  
  
” _Non!_ " the shorter man shakes his head dismissively, and goes back to his cigarette, inhaling a little sharper than the usual. "your not being there stopped being annoying even before that night was over. I wasn’t expecting to see you around again."  
  
Thomas pouts. “You _didn’t_ miss me?”  
  
Guy says nothing. Regardless of what the truth is, there are things that one can admit to in good faith only after a certain time has passed. This is one such situation. “But you’re here now, as you said,” he dodges the question instead, turning to the bartender. “strawberry daiquiris - _s’il-vous plait_ \- for the two of us, _merci_.”  
  
"You like daiquiris now, do you?"  
  
He sounds absurdly satisfied with himself, but at the same time he looks so honest that Guy can’t quite bring himself to become annoyed. “I suppose so, yes,” he nods, half resigned but feeling obligated to tell the truth in this case. “once you got me curious, it was inevitable.”  
  
"Inevitable?"  
  
” _Oui._ Cause and effect. Like - how do I explain this - when a man goes outside and the sun gets in his eyes, he might react in multiple ways, but you know that he’s far more likely to shield his eyes, put sunglasses on, or do something along those lines. Because those would be logical responses. What would you rather believe, that the sun gets in someone’s eyes and he somehow becomes inclined to shoot someone?”  
  
"… I… I suppose not?"  
  
"Somewhat like that. You looked as if you really enjoyed those daiquiris and strawberries are my favourite fruit, it figures that I eventually got curious and tried one out."  
  
"And also that you were more inclined towards liking it in the end," Thomas finishes the chain of logic for him. The cocktails come out at this point, and Guy is just reaching for his wallet when the taller man stops him with a hand. "I’ve got this," he winks, and hands the bartender a fifty-Franc note. "I already made you waste time waiting for me, I’m not going to make you pay for my drink, too."  
  
 _What makes you think that I was doing nothing but waiting for you_ , Guy almost utters, but as soon as the thought enters his mind he knows that he’s being insincere. Far better to keep his silence, He simply picks up his cocktail and surveys it before raising it as a polite gesture to Thomas; the latter clinks his glass against his, and while it was unexpected Guy finds himself quite surprised at how much he didn’t mind.  
  
There’s a live band on tonight.  
Guy drinks and lets out a quiet ‘hmm’; sad to say it, but their music just isn’t doing it for him, and it’s not because of their genre (something like indie rock). Had he been alone, he might not have stayed to listen past the first drink, and he gets the sense that Thomas isn’t all that impressed, either. The band would be just about listenable if not for one thing. “That second guitarist,” Guy speaks up, making the taller man turn to him. “he is out of tune.”  
  
"I know. Not even in _one_ string, either, more like _three_. Absolutely awful.”  
  
"D, G and B, I think."  
  
” _Oui,_ that’s what I was…” but by this point Thomas is beginning to trail off, turning to stare at Guy wide-eyed; the latter too has had the same revelation and is looking startled, gazing quickly from Thomas to the band and then back. This conversation would be impossible if not for one unifying factor- “… wait, do you - are _you_ a musician, too?”  
  
"Guitarist," Guy sounds just as stunned as he is. "… since I was little…"  
  
"Piano here, since I was six, and some bass. And it’s _obvious_ to you, too, right? When something’s been transposed or out of tune?”  
  
"Down to the individual note and key. Do people get annoyed with you when you tell them about it?"  
  
Thomas groans. “ _All the time._ They usually just tell me to shut up and continue doing what I’m doing - I DJ as a part-time job and that apparently makes me an obnoxious know-it-all-“  
  
”- _Whoa_. Hang on,” Guy interrupts, holding up a hand. “are we _both_ DJs, then?”  
  
Scattered applause rings through the club, briefly distracting the two of them from their conversation; the band has finished a piece, and they’re taking a break for a few minutes. They both turn to watch the band members setting down their instruments and heading down from the stage; Guy in particular is still stunned and mulling over what’s just been said. A DJ - of course Paris is huge and there are hundreds, if not thousands, of DJs in the city that he’s never met - but what _are_ the odds, really? “For how long?” he presses on.  
  
"Past year," about the same time as when Guy started. "that’s what I was doing the past two nights, standing in for the actual guy who couldn’t make it."  
  
That makes sense. Guy is immediately more sympathetic, and the very last of his annoyance towards Thomas melts away just like that. He was subject to demanding schedules as well when he was active, so much that he could barely find time to eat and sleep, let alone study. He out of all people should understand how demanding the work is. With understanding comes compassion - and shortly afterwards, justified interest. “You know,” Guy says slowly. “… we’ve known each other for just over a week, and I don’t think that… we’ve… ever shared names.”  
  
"We haven’t," pause. The long-haired man doesn’t respond, though, so Thomas presses on, somewhat anxiously. "so, um, you first? What’s your name?"  
  
"Guillaume Emmanuel Paul de Homem-Christo, but no one has the time for that. I’ll accept any variation on that name, except ‘Paul’. I’m a lot of things, almost too many, so much that I know better what I’m _not_ than what I _am_ , and what I’m not is _Paul_. Seriously. What about me looks even half like a ‘Paul’? What were my parents _thinking_.”  
  
Thomas blinks. When he asked for a name, he was expecting a name in return, not repressed teenage angst.  
(Though it is memorable. No forgetting _this_ name any time soon.)  
  
"… So… you’d go by pretty much anything in that name, except ‘Paul’."  
  
"Yes."  
  
The taller man grins a little awkwardly. “Well, I’m not in a position to be overly experimental. Maybe this just comes off as boring, but… ‘Guy-Manuel’? Or just ‘Guy’?”  
  
"Either will do fine," Guy says - then _smiles_ , so gently and coyly that Thomas is quite lost for words until the former extends his hand. “ _enchanté. Comment vous appelez-vous?_ ”  
  
"Thomas Bangalter," he responds, but he’s still fixated on that smile. He can guess that Guy doesn’t smile often, though _God, he really should_ ; it lends an almost-mischievous, schoolboyish air to his demeanor, makes him look at least ten times more approachable and friendly. He shakes Guy’s hand firmly with an ‘ _enchanté_ ' of his own, unaware that the other was smiling because he was delighted by Thomas's accent on his name - four distinct syllables, but spoken as a singular _'Guy-man-nu-el'_ instead of two hyphenated words. He hasn’t heard that variation before, and has found it really quite pleasant. “not quite as long and elegant as yours, I’m afraid to say.”  
  
” _Bangalter_ ,” Guy repeats to himself, and here Thomas has his own moment of delight regarding the pronunciation of his name; the final ‘r’ trilled softly at the tip of his tongue, unusual but dulcet. It comes even more as a surprise because he’s never done that with any other word before. Guy’s certainly quite something. “a nice name. I’ll keep that in mind.”  
  
One must never underestimate the power of a Parisian accent.  
Even other Parisians fall for it. It’s that charming. They don’t speak very much after that, focusing on drinking and tolerating the music around them; but Thomas has subconsciously pulled his seat a little closer to Guy, feeling that a wall between them has come down. Guy is feeling oddly cheerful himself, though he wouldn’t admit it out loud just yet. Sometimes, the night is good to him.  
  
——-  
  
Over the next few nights they meet each other and engage in similar kinds of discourse. On the tenth day Guy lays bare yet another layer of personal information and discloses his age, and finds (much to his pleasant surprise) that he and Thomas are just barely a year apart. They were in the same year at school, though they didn’t attend the same one; Thomas is currently gearing towards a permanent musical career, while Guy’s in his second year in university studying cognitive science, though he’s not sure whether he wants to pursue it as a job. As a result, he stops regarding Thomas as a ‘boy’ and begins seeing him as a rightful equal, whilst the taller man lets his guard down, no longer feeling that Guy is intimidating or that the barrier between them is impassable. They also discuss a little more of their musical pursuits, finding a great deal in common: they were both in a band at some point, they both enjoy electronica, and they’re both longing for equipment that they can in no way afford. The way of the artist is a hard one.  
  
They tell each other their DJ names, too.  
 _Guy-Man_ and _T-Bang_ ; they mostly just pretend to take note and move on to talking about something else, but both are aware that they can now find each other during lonely midnights in Paris. Perhaps they can even invite each other to certain events. Guy’s apparently on hiatus until his classes are over in summer, so that opportunity goes to Thomas first. Not just yet, though.  
  
They’re not quite friends yet, but they are very close to it. So close that it’s almost palpable. Both of them are feeling this way, as Thomas gathers when he arrives at the club on the twelfth night and sees Guy waiting for him by the door, glancing listlessly at his watch and smoking. “Oh, you’re here,” he says blandly when he sees the younger man approach, but he quickly puts out his cigarette and straightens up, giving him his full attention. “I was waiting for you.”  
  
"Really," Thomas says as he looks over him. Guy’s always been well-dressed (if quite simply), but today he’s wearing a neatly ironed black button-up shirt with a slim grey tie and he looks more elegant than ever. His hair falls about his face gently, framing it, and Thomas’s heart does a slight off-beat all of its own. "not for long, though?"  
  
"Long enough," is Guy’s cryptic answer, and that’s all he says before he nods and gestures towards the door. Thomas grins.  
He reaches it first and opens it for Guy, and as the older man says a ‘ _merci’_ and enters he catches the scent of his cologne: mellow-spicy and smooth, with notes of cinnamon and vanilla. He suspects that Guy has a sweeter center than he’s willing to let on, and wishes that he and the other were better acquainted; it’s really quite flattering, having someone like him waiting for him every night. One day, he might even be able to offer his arm for Guy whenever they leave the club, and have him take it and lean against him with ease.  
  
Just maybe. It’s nice to dream about, anyway.  
  
Their usual seats are occupied when they enter, but the people in it are clearly in the process of leaving, counting out tips and shrugging on their jackets. “If you could grab the seats, please, Thomas,” Guy asks as he takes out his wallet. “and I’ll get us the drinks, what’s your poison tonight?”  
  
"You _will?_ Are you sure?”  
  
"What are you talking about. I’m a man of _impeccable_ manners. I can’t let you always pay for our drinks, it’s only fair that I buy this time around.”  
  
The younger man considers the offer, eyeing the bottles behind the bar. “Hmm… I’ll have what you’re having. Or is that a horribly transparent attempt to avoid responsibility?”  
  
Guy rolls his eyes, but judging by his still-relaxed body language, he’s willing to take Thomas seriously. “Even if it’s a whiskey on the rocks?”  
  
"Even if it’s just a whiskey on the rocks."  
  
"Understood. Two whiskey on the rocks coming up."  
  
So naturally, Guy goes off to the bar and comes back with two sidecars by the time Thomas has successfully secured their seats. The liquid gleams amber beneath the lighting, its aroma fresh and tangy-sweet but more rounded than that of a strawberry daiquiri. “Tonight is a compromise, we both could do with something new,” he says, and hands Thomas his glass. Their hands brush and he tenses briefly at the contact, a pleasant shock running up his wrist. “so a sidecar it is! _Prosit_.”  
  
” _Prosit?_ Since when did you speak German?”  
  
"I took an intensive course in it last year. Had to, something about it coming in handy when we get to philosophy of mind - and it might, who knows?"  
  
Thomas is willing to grant that point; he learnt English as a foreign language back at school, too, and he’d been good at it. More is always better than less when it comes to languages. He takes a sip of his sidecar and detects slightly more Cointreau than should be the norm; tonight he doesn’t care, though, the sweetness seems apt when he’s with Guy. “How do you find it? German, I mean.”  
  
"Not very elegant, but my _God_ is it useful. Whenever they need a new word for a concept, they just smash existing ones together, and somehow manage to convey accuate descriptions bordering on an anecdote in far less letters than we ever could manage. What a fantastically utilitarian approach to language.”  
  
"Are you still taking it?"  
  
Guy shakes his head, thinks about it a bit more, and frowns. “Not for credit, like last year. I do attend a Franco-German society group, though, we just talk in a mixture of both and about anything at all. We aren’t particularly serious, when we first met at the beginning of the year and introduced ourselves everyone was just fooling around and giving completely false descriptions and names…”  
  
"Interesting," the younger man plucks out the lemon rind from the edge of his glass and observes it. "… how did you describe yourself?"  
  
Guy smirks. “’ _Tall. Dark. Extremely handsome_ ’. What’d I tell you, fooling around.”  
  
What follows comes completely out of left field for both Thomas and Guy; for the former, especially, who remains once more totally in the dark as to what on earth possessed him to say such a thing. “So you told the _truth_? Is this some kind of Zen thing where the act of not-messing-about results in more hilarity than messing about?”  
  
"That’s not w-" then it strikes Guy, the implications of what Thomas really meant, and he’s shocked into silence for a moment. "I - I’m not _tall,_ Thomas. Not compared to you.”  
  
It’s evident that he doesn’t like to talk about his height, but the younger man hardly thinks it more respectful to deny what he just said. “… True.”  
  
"Well, thank you anyway," the older man says, then laughs (though it comes a little awkward). "as I said, it was just for fun. I guess two out of three isn’t bad?"  
  
” _Au contraire,_ " Thomas’s eyes are unwavering, the light reflecting off them like smoke-quartz, fixed directly onto Guy’s own. "it’s _excellent_.”  
  
How’s he meant to respond to that? How’s _anyone_ meant to respond to such a thing?  
He just stares at Thomas, first in disbelief, then with slow-rising embarrassment, before he has to look away altogether; he suddenly feels oddly hot beneath his shirt and tie and well aware that his cheeks are pink, and curses himself for it. In response to that he shakily loosens his tie and brushes back a lock of his hair - a nervous habit - before taking a sip out of his sidecar to try distracting himself. The profoundly strange thing is that he’s not even a stranger to being complimented on his appearance: the sweep of his hair, how his eyes seem to change colour in the sun, his even features and stature, he’s heard it all and in some occasions even agreed, though never to the extent of thinking himself handsome. Thomas has offered no detailed or elaborate account of exactly how Guy might be defined as _handsome_ \- and therefore it’d be a lie to say that he believed the younger man - but something about how he so completely and factually _assured it_ has shaken him.  
  
"… Thanks," he murmurs quietly, almost too quietly to be heard, and reaches out to squeeze Thomas’s arm once before pulling away. Almost immediately he coughs and turns his head to the side, awkwardly pulling out his pack of cigarettes and plucking one out to hold in his mouth. His movements are hurried, his lack of the usual grace a clear indication that he’s been left flustered, and Thomas can’t help but feel a slight bolt of guilt.  
  
"… I’ve made you uncomfortable," he says apologetically, watching Guy flicking on his lighter and missing the flame the first time (before cursing and getting it right). "I’m sorry, Guy, I’ve been too forward-"  
  
”- not at all, certainly less so than the first time we met-“  
  
” _Mon Dieu_. Please don’t remind me. I still don’t know what made me say that, no more than I know why I brought up this topic,” Thomas shrugs and takes a long and evidently well-appreciated sip out of his sidecar, though his expression is vaguely troubled when he sets down the glass. “… you don’t think that… perhaps, we’re beginning to _mean something?_ ”  
  
” _Mean_ something!” Guy repeats in disbelief, tossing his long hair back slightly as he scoffs. “what nonsense! Certainly not in the grand scope of the universe, if that’s what you meant.”  
  
"But on a personal level?" the younger man presses, tilting his head to the side inquisitively. "to _each other_ , perhaps?”  
  
"… Oh, God, are we _actually_ back to discussing what you first said to me two weeks ago.”  
  
” _Non, non! Pas ça!_ I was more talking about how we’d progressed. Please don’t punch me again,” Thomas sounds shy but wary, and Guy tilts his head, indicating that he should go on. “it’s… this. _Christ._ Two weeks ago _we didn’t know each other._ And now it turns out we’re almost the same age, like the same things, and might even have been in the same parties and nightclubs together for all this time and never noticed. I could have passed you by in the streets - you could have bought a coffee off me, I worked for six months in a cafe near where you study - and back then we just… didn’t know. Then I got possessed by God-knows-what and you punched me in the face, but when I came back you were actually _willing_ to put some trust in me. That’s kind of weird but absolutely amazing. How there’s nothing between two people, and then something just pops into existence at some point, and neither of them can pinpoint _when_.”  
  
Guy is silent for a moment. “I see what you mean,” he finally says, then pauses to inhale. He has an odd way of smoking, the taller man has noticed in the meanwhile; instead of the usual lighting up, holding the smoke in the mouth for a moment, then letting the smoke out through slightly-pursed lips, Guy inhales only for a second before exhaling all the smoke at once. This is then accompanied with a slight, graceful inhalation back towards the soft pink tip of his tongue - he’s exclusively _tasting_ the smoke in its rightful context, the atmosphere, where it belongs. A gourmet. Thomas finds it fascinating and quite frankly rather sensual. “and you’re… well, I was about to say that most relationships work that way, but now that you mention it it does seem profoundly odd why it has to work that way in the first place. But do finish. What do you want to say?”  
  
” _Que voulez-vous?_ " Thomas asks.  
  
 _"Hein?"_  
  
 _"Que voulez-vous."_  
  
 _"… Ah! Que voulez-vous. Exactement."_  
  
They drink in silence.  
  
——-  
  
The next night, Guy has figured out what he wanted.  
  
 _"On peut se tutoyer?"_  
  
 _"Oui, tu peux,"_ Thomas says, and smiles.  
He has a lovely smile, boyish, sweet like summer.  
  
——-  
  
Remarkable progress takes place between them on the fourteenth night, though they don’t think of it in that way until much later in their relationship, when they have been together long enough to _reflect_. For one, they actually manage to _change locations together_ during their night, and are still with each other when the clock strikes twelve and past that point. It has always been the case that either Guy or Thomas (more often the latter) took their leave first before the other - they might have walked in together, but they’ve never _left_ that way. That is, before a combination of particularly-atrocious electronica - so bad that Guy actually curses out loud the moment he sets foot in the place - too many people, and a girl they’ve never seen before barging in their conversation halfway through their drinks end up forcing them out. To his credit, Thomas manages to be genuinely cordial even when expressing his disinterest; Guy just sits there and glares at her silently until she goes away, which is thankfully soon. “Not my type,” the younger man is quick to clarify, sensing the other’s discomfort on some level even when not directly looking at him. “nice, though.”  
  
"Hmph."  
  
"Don’t get me wrong. The reason she came up in the first place was to ask if you were my girlfriend," Guy starts and gives him a wild-eyed look. "I think she thought that because of your hair. She complimented it once I told her the truth, by the way, so there aren’t any hard feelings there. I _think_ she wanted to dance, but I told her I was preoccupied before she ever said anything of that kind, so she just left,” Thomas nods sagely towards the dancefloor; she is nowhere to be seen.  
  
Guy snorts. “ _I_ wouldn’t, myself, not with _this_ playing in the background. Give me a third of the records this DJ has and I’ll do the job a hundred times better. Though what do I even expect, I never came to this place for the music.”  
  
"You don’t?"  
  
He shakes his head. Thomas looks intrigued. “You know,” he observes, lightly tapping at the countertop with his fingernails. “that does remind me. Despite having met in a very dance-oriented club, we’ve spent the past fortnight doing exactly none of that. I don’t know, before I came on the scene and when I couldn’t make it those two nights you might have danced. Though I’ve never actually _seen_ you dance. Why don’t you ever dance?”  
  
” _Ever_ is a strong word, _non?_ I do. Just not here.”  
  
"But what if someone like - oh, I don’t know - a girl came up and asked? Or anyone?"  
  
"Wouldn’t matter," what follows is more truer than what came before. "I’m not here for the girls."  
  
Guy then braces himself for the inevitable and bothersome question - _well, are you here for the boys?_ \- but Thomas asks no such thing, which he’s quite grateful for. Instead he just tilts his head and frowns slightly in thought. “… Hmm. I must admit you’ve left me at a loss here. If not the music, girls, or even dancing - what’s your reason for going to a club every night?”  
  
” _Très simple._ I came for the whiskey on the rocks,” the younger man stares at him. “they do the best whiskey on the rocks that I’ve ever had. But since you’ve come along I guess you’ve won me over to their daiquiris as well.”  
  
"… Thank you for the compliment, Guy, but it’s _whiskey_. On _ice_. Even if you imagine that the water for the ice varies, how can there be _that much of a difference_.”  
  
Guy taps his fingers on the empty glass for a moment, his expression cool and calm. Thomas watches him. “There isn’t very much difference at all,” he finally speaks up. “if you only look at _what_ goes in the tumbler. Whiskey, and ice, as you said. At the end of the day that’s what you drink. But have you ever stayed to watch how a bartender - _any_ bartender - pours a whiskey on the rocks, though?” the other shakes his head. “I thought not. It’s not something people generally pay attention to. I do, though, and the more you do it the more you can’t help but think that everyone has their own varying methods about the entire business. Some fill the glass over halfway with ice and then get careless with the whiskey so that it ends up becoming too diluted by the end. Some people are too economical with the ice and I might as well have been drinking my whiskey neat, which is not what I asked for at all. This place,” he gestures to the area behind the bar. “this place, though… Fresh ice, so cold that I can see the water evaporating off their surface - but the whiskey is at room temperature. They touch the neck of the bottle to the rim of the glass when they pour, too, and it’s done at such a pace that the moment the whiskey hits the ice I can hear it crack. _Slowly._ Absolute art. I don’t think there’s such a thing as the ‘perfect’ whiskey on the rocks, and each glass you get, it’s never going to be the exact same one. But what I get in this place is better than most, and it keeps getting better. It’s the epitome of experience’s role in bettering your skills.”  
  
Only when he finishes with his monologue does he become aware of two things: one, that Thomas is looking at him with a mixture of disbelief and confusion, and two, that he hadn’t actually been conscious of the fact that he’d been thinking all of this before he was asked. But now that it’s all out, his conviction only strengthens; the world is too full of uncertainties to speak meaningfully of perfection, but at the same time, to Guy that means that one can only get better and better at something. Human potential is endless.  
  
Thomas might find that less comforting than he, but there’s no disputing his feelings on the matter.  
Guy smiles. “… You’ll understand when you’re older.”  
  
"Thank you for that fantastic advice, Guy. A whole eleven months. Glad to know that all the problems I have with this world is due to me _not contemplating whiskey hard enough._ ”  
  
"Oh, you’d be surprised. I’m merely pointing out that you can discover order and beauty in anything. _De rien,_ Thomas, _de rien_.”  
  
"You’re right about one thing, though. The music _is_ terrible tonight,” Thomas says, and seeing that both he and Guy have emptied their drinks, pushes his glass away and stands up. “what do you say to going somewhere else, I don’t think I can stand listening to this any longer and neither can you by the looks of it.”  
  
Guy agrees to this without any objections at all, immediately getting out of his seat and passing his glass back to the bartender before leading the way out of the club. The night air is cold and it’s surprisingly quiet outside; this area is usually bustling somewhat with passersby and tourists, but tonight is not one of those times. The moment the door swings shut behind them, the world falls largely silent, only the sound of rustling leaves and wind truly audible in the darkness.  
  
"At last!" he exclaims, heaves a sigh, and turns to look up at the taller man. He’s slipping something out of his messenger bag, a brown paper sack of some sort. "a walk around the streets, I think. Unless you can suggest somewhere else?"  
  
"No, but anywhere’s better than back there. I don’t know about the whiskey, Guy, but their choice in music really has been going downhill. I wonder what’s making them do that."  
  
"The plot, of course. What else?" Guy gestures towards the paper bag as they begin walking towards a random direction. "what’s in this, anyway?"  
  
"You’ll never guess," the taller man grins, and opens the bag without letting Guy actually have a guess. The latter looks inside and raises his eyebrows. "in a personal, delicious, weekly homage to the best of _la littérature française - madeleines_. Completely intended for flashback purposes.”  
  
” _Proustian involuntary memory_. Wow. Another concept that didn’t need introducing into our already fabulously-Parisian lives.”  
  
"Well, we’re _French_ ,” Thomas responds, as if that justifies everything. (Unless your knowledge of France is entirely pseudo-intellectual, that probably shouldn’t be the case.) He takes one out and grins at it, delighting in the pleasant, sweet lemony scent. “though now that you and I get the reference, maybe whatever you think of after eating one of those isn’t exactly going to be involuntary. No matter. Sometimes you want to be fully aware of what you’re getting into,” his watch gleams in the moonlight, and Guy watches it throw a silvery patch of light on the ground whenever the other moves his arm. “just look at them - shaped like a seashell, so small and exquisitely formed with those pleats on the surface, and of course you need to get the batter exactly right or the whole batch falls flat. There’s something almost pious about the act of baking them and then gently shaking them free from the pan - there’s nothing so culinarily tragic as a crumbling madeleine,” he rests the cake on his palm, specks of sugar glinting as he does so. “like a shell. Small and insignificant, but you can hear the entire ocean in one. When I’m done with music practice during the weekend I always sit down with a cup of tea and a madeleine - half just for eating, half to soak in the tea and savour. _C’est merveilleux._ It’s really not so bad measuring out my life in coffee spoons and madeleines. Moments of my life, times enjoyed and wasted, times long since lost - all in a madeleine. You ever feel that way sometimes?”  
  
"Hardly," Guy says indifferently. "sometimes a cake is just a cake."  
  
"I could say the same for a whiskey on the rocks," the taller man teases with a grin. There’s a cafe that’s still open nearby, and he directs them both towards it. "will you still think of it as ‘just a cake’ if I gave it to you?"  
  
An incredulous stare. “… Why would I _not._ It doesn’t cease to be a cake just because you gave it to me.”  
  
Thomas sighs playfully and rolls his eyes. Guy’s a tough one.  
It only makes him more fascinating, really, he loves a good challenge. “Indoors or outdoors?” he asks, indicating to the seating; only two people are outdoors, while it’s slightly more bustling inside even at this hour. Guy nods towards a table outdoors, but follows Thomas inside to order his own drink; he orders an espresso, liking his coffee strong in the vain hopes that perhaps one day, caffeine would actually help him stay awake instead of having zero effect on him.  
  
Somewhere in the distance, they can hear the sound of bells chiming the new day. They both glance at each other quizzically, pausing at the doorway with their drinks in hand.  
They would not have heard it had they stayed somewhere else; nowadays no one has to go too far to check the time regardless of where they are, but tradition has lingered on, its song weaving through the fabric of Paris every quarter of an hour, a pattern instinctively recognized and adored by all who live here. “E-flat,” Guy says, and takes his seat.  
  
"I disagree. F, surely," Thomas sits down as well, and pours the needed amount of milk in his coffee. "but then I think they have more bells than one."  
  
Guy concurs, and takes the first sip of his espresso, dark and bittersweet. Thomas sets the bag in front of them again, showing him the six madeleines nestled coyly inside. “Finally,” he grins. “back to those. I bake those every week and I thought of you when I was making the last batch. Will you have one?”  
  
"I wouldn’t protest."  
  
His tone might be nonchalant, but judging by how his eyes are fixed on the cakes, what Guy said can be translated as more along the lines of _'oh hell yes'_. “Ah-ah,” the younger man shakes his head before he can reach in and take a madeleine; he picks one out himself, breaks it into half, dunks it only briefly into his own coffee - and holds it out. “let me.”  
  
"… Thomas, this really isn’t nece-"  
  
"I insist."  
  
Guy huffs. “You’re being _ridiculous_.”  
  
"Quite possibly, yes, but what better than feeding someone close by to show them that you care for them? Come on. Guy. Be good to me. Please?"  
  
"I don’t-" a playfully-pleading look from the younger man breaks down his resolve, though, and with a half-inarticulate ‘nngh’ he hastily leans forwards at the same time as Thomas pushes the madeleine to his mouth. " _mmh_ -!”  
  
His first instinct is to resist, to keep his lips firmly closed - but that’s only before he registers that it’s Thomas and his intentions are genuine, after which he takes the piece of madeleine in his mouth. It’s just the right amount of moist and sweet (and now warm from the coffee) with a hint of lemon-zest. Lemon being one of his favourite flavours, it’s all he can do to keep himself from involuntarily moaning out loud at the taste; he doesn’t even register that Thomas is still holding on and is watching him with unconcealed interest, before he slowly lets go and lets Guy come back to his senses once more. Ridiculous, indeed. He keeps on trying to tell himself that the taste isn’t quite right, that it’s inauthentic - madeleines are to be taken with tea, not with coffee, and most definitely not coffee saturated with milk because _ugh, who does that_. But none of that diminishes that _Thomas_ does regardless of Guy’s own opinions on coffee, and somehow the rich buttery crumbs and the milky coffee do make for an utterly fantastic combination. Without quite realizing it he’s closed his eyes, chewing slowly and thoughtfully to savour every last morsel, impressed enough to show it shamelessly. Thomas watches him with a near-childlike smile, both amused and in wonder at what he managed to achieve. (Guy has a particularly lovely face when he’s enjoying himself.)  
  
"There," he says gently, and offers him the other half of the madeleine. "not half bad, _non?_ You look so happy. You should be happier often.”  
  
"Pah! Don’t get used to it," Guy mumbles, but accepts the rest, finding it delightful even without the coffee. " _mmm_.”  
  
There is silence for a while. Thomas drinks his coffee and eats a madeleine for himself, breaking it into half and then quarters before eating, two dipped in coffee and two without, careful not to spill crumbs everywhere. While he’s never been in a cafe at this hour - and certainly not outdoors - Guy finds it pleasant, for tonight is lacking in its usual chill and the company handsome and intelligent. He’s emptied his espresso down to the last few drops when Thomas speaks up again. “So… it’s not the case that you _never_ dance, right?”  
  
"Yes, as I said. Hey, these are really good, could I have another? - _Oui? - Merci,_ " Guy takes another cake from the bag and balances it on his palm before glancing at Thomas. "… I do, but I don’t just dance _anywhere_.”  
  
The younger man flashes him a grin. “Oh, we’ll see about that. I’m asking because I want to invite you somewhere next week.”  
  
"Invite me?" Guy nibbles daintily at the edges of the madeleine, then frowns down at it as if he just remembered something vital. "… what day, though, I have a whole week of exams the week after next. I probably won’t be able to see you some nights."  
  
Come to think of it, he hasn’t considered that until the younger man had brought it up. The thought of passing his evenings lost in studies suddenly seems positively anathemic, even though that was one of the few ways he used to spend his time before Thomas had walked into his life - there’s no way that he can add to what he’s already stated, though, because what more _can_ he say? He looks up, expecting a disappointed Thomas, only to blink when he sees that the other is smiling very gently. “Well, isn’t that just convenient, I have several DJ gigs lined up next week too. I was going to tell you earlier - might as well now - I’m out of Paris altogether Monday and Tuesday, but on Friday I’m DJ-ing at a club near the one we were just in. You can spare Friday night, _oui?_ ”  
  
"Which club is this?"  
  
” _Punctum._ Do you know it?” Guy shakes his head. “excellent music, I promise, which will be doubly excellent when I’m the one in charge. Do you have something that I can write o-“  
  
It pays off to be a well-prepared student whenever writing materials are concerned. The older man whips out his diary and the pen clipped to its spine before Thomas can even finish speaking, earning himself an impressed look from the latter, and opens it to the needed date. “Dictate for me,” he says simply; his readiness says all that Thomas needs to know about his acceptance of the invitation, and the younger man finds himself becoming bolder at the thought. Guy’s at least _curious_ , and this is not an opportunity he should let go to waste.  
  
"Sure. I’ll give you my number first-" Guy raises one eyebrow. Thomas keeps his expression perfectly neutral, though he’s feeling very jumpy inside. "-so that you can call me if you change your mind. any time of the week. Then the address. Call me when you get home."  
  
The other two patrons outside are standing up and gathering their coats; it’s nearly closing time even for this place. The long-haired man lets his gaze drift over to them for a moment, considering, before giving one decisive nod. “ _D’accord._ If you could.”  
  
 _"Zéro, un, zéro, quatre, vingt-"_  
  
The older man holds his hand up, stopping him; he’s going too fast. _“‘Quatre’ et ‘vingt’, ou ‘quatre-vingt’?”_  
  
 _"Oh, pardon! Quatre et vingt._ Whoever came up with our numbering system, I swear.”  
  
"Agreed," Guy reaches over and dunks his madeleine in Thomas’s coffee, then takes a bite as if nothing happened. "and the rest, _s’il-te plait?_ ”  
  
He recites the rest of the needed information and checks it over to see if everything is correct; it is. Guy nods thoughtfully when Thomas says this, then surprises the other by tearing out a spare piece of paper, writing his own number and ‘ _GM de Homem-Christo_ ' beneath it, and handing it to him. “It's only fair that you have mine, too,” is his only explanation as he finishes off the madeleine and leans back, surveying his diary and frowning delicately as he works out what his new schedule will be like. Thomas gazes for a long time down at the paper in the meanwhile, trying to engrave the sequence of numbers in his mind; he can't lose this for anything. When he gets home he's immediately going to copy it down somewhere stable and noticeable, and ideally memorize it.  
  
He traces lightly over the words with the tip of his finger. Guy has absolutely _beautiful_ handwriting. His essays must look like works of art. That thought makes him smile and feel a blushing warmth deep inside; it’s just as well that the older man can’t see him properly at the moment.  
  
"All right, I accept," Guy finally says and tucks the book back into his jacket. A ghost of a smile has drifted onto his lips, but he still looks largely impassive, probably on purpose. "how long is your set? From what time?"  
  
"Oh. Eight to midnight. Someone else is taking over after that, but I’m the main act. Come along whenever you want, it might be that I won’t warm up until I’m at least half an hour in…"  
  
"Just about the right time. I’ll humour you - I’ll show you how I dance. You’re not allowed to complain about it, though," then Guy’s expression hardens just a little, more in jest than seriousness. "but I won’t if the music isn’t good enough. I might even walk out in disgust. That’s not a definite opinion on your skills as a DJ, seeing as I’ve never actually seen you perform, but it could happen. What’ll you do in that case?"  
  
"I’ll take it as constructive criticism, I suppose. And I’ll apologize. Sincerely. Unless I can tempt you into forgiving me regardless with home-baked goods?"  
  
Guy laughs out loud; his eyes soften and his sullen expression disappears. “Aren’t you something, Thomas! Just for that offer, I’ll try to stay for your entire set. I’d prefer it if I could say goodnight to you properly afterwards, too.”  
  
Thomas perks right back again. “ _Quoi!_ You mean you’ll spend more time with me? Really?”  
  
"… That’s somewhat of an off-kilter interpretation of what I meant, but yes? You sure do look eager to spend time with _me_.”  
  
"Of course, isn’t that at the heart of our nightly meetings?" Thomas is distracted from explaining further when he sees a long, handsome black cat with a fluffy tail - straight out of _Le Chat Noir_ \- slinking past the tables; immediately he swivels around on his chair and laughs, catching the stray’s glass-green eyes. “oh, I _love_ cats! _Bonsoir, Monsieur le chat!_ " he hollers as the cat begins to trot towards them. " _bonsoir!_ ”  
  
Guy sighs. Thomas looks gleeful, petting the cat all over, its purring pleasant and loud.  
But his heart is light, and when the cat meows and raises itself on its hind legs to place two paws on his lap, he can’t resist gently stroking the top of its paws and head, either.  
  
——-  
  
It is three o’clock when Guy returns home; that twilight hour before the dawn begins, tugging the morning along with it. He said goodbye to Thomas an hour and half ago, but took the long way back home. He hangs up his jacket and tidies his windswept hair with one hand, gazing into his apartment with a thoughtful look on his face. He’s neglected the place for the past three days or so, having spent most of his days asleep or elsewhere, only stopping by to shower and change before heading out to the club; the apartment isn’t messy by any sense of the word, but laundry needs doing, and he should vacuum at some point in the near future. He’s quite a tidy person, all things considered, but he could always be tidier. One can never know who they might be entertaining as a guest, nor when.  
  
Then he pauses, and reconsiders that thought. _Guests?_  
  
No way. Guy has people whom he’s close to, but almost _never_ that close, and that’s talking about people that he’s known for longer than just a few days. Beating around the bush is hardly his style, so he downright admits to himself that when he thought ‘guests’ an image of Thomas flashed across his eyes - and pushes the idea aside just as matter-of-factly. It’s too early for that. Oh, he _enjoys_ Thomas’s company and has no qualms about continuing to see him; he finds the other quite charming beneath the clumsiness and overt chatter, too, neither of those things are so intolerable that he can’t work with them; but still, they’re hardly at the stage where they would want to invite each other over to watch movies together, sleep in the same bed, or engage in more intimate activities.  
  
Everything has a fitting time and place. Guy takes off his shoes, arranges them neatly by the door, and sighs in half contentment as he enters the kitchen to pour himself a glass of red wine. His usual nightcap; there’s something about wine that makes him _blush,_ his body filling with barely-metabolized warmth until he wants nothing more than to curl up in bed and sleep. Then he takes the glass, turns the lights in the kitchen out, and heads straight to his bedroom. Clothes are taken off and discarded carelessly, thrown towards some dark corner of the room; there’s a bedside lamp but he doesn’t bother turning it on, content enough with the moonlight drifting in through the window. His body is illuminated milky-blue as he settles himself onto the bed, wearing only boxers and quite ready to sleep. The streetlamp hums vaguely outside. All is well. He takes a sip out of his wine and closes his eyes.  
  
 _Call me when you get home._  
  
Ah. Of course. He opens his eyes again and moves off the bed without a sound, retrieving his diary and flicking to the page in question. Through the moonlight he can just about make out the sequence of numbers. Common sense tells him that he could leave it until the morning, that there’s a high chance that the other might be asleep by now - but if there’s anything he’s learnt in the past two weeks with the taller man, it’s that Thomas Bangalter does not operate via common sense.  
  
 _And neither do I, apparently,_ he thinks as he reaches for the phone and dials the number, cradling the receiver between his face and shoulder as he slumps down onto the bed again. The signal tone drones on several times and his eyes flutter shut. He’s held on for exactly ten rings (and another swallow of the wine) before Thomas picks up at the other end. “Guy,” he immediately exclaims, skipping all the customary greetings; he must have been keeping himself awake, waiting for that one phone call, all this time. Guy finds himself rather touched at the thought.  
  
 _"C’est moi."_  
  
"I was waiting for you," the other’s voice is oddly breathless but glad. "you’re home and safe?"  
  
"Of course, why would I not be? I’m sorry that it got so late-" he takes a sip. "- I was actually thinking whether to leave the call until morning, you know. You might have been asleep," Thomas inhales slightly but sharply, and Guy knows that he’s about to retort. "but thank you for being awake, nonetheless. This is just as much me checking up on you as it’s the other way around."  
  
And the momentary tension is defused, just like that. “ _Non, non._ It’s me who should be thanking you for calling me. I was worried,” pause. “just a little. I know it’s silly,” another pause. Guy swirls the wine a little in its glass, starting to feel the drowsiness settle in. “but strange things can happen in the night. Anyway. Thanks again, I probably should go to bed now.”  
  
"Yes, you ought to, and so should I. _Dors bien._ I’ll hang up first.”  
  
"… And," Guy pauses to listen. Thomas is clearly hesitating on the other end, judging from his silence and anxious breathing, but eventually he speaks up again with surprising shyness: "and… I can… call you, too, right? Sometimes? Maybe even during the day, just to talk…?"  
  
 _Oh._  
  
Like he asserted earlier, he’s fine with things carrying on the way they are, meeting by the cover of darkness in their post-midnight soirees. But it’s a different issue altogether if Thomas wants to take it up a notch and gives full consent; who’s he, then, to undermine that wish? Once he reasons that far, Guy smiles without quite realizing it. “Of course you can,” he says, and his voice comes out gentle and genuine, so reassuring that he can almost hear Thomas sighing in relief at the end. “but for now - _bonne nuit.”_  
  
 _"Bonne nuit, Guy."_  
  
 _It’s different,_ he thinks as he places down the receiver and takes another sip out of his wine. _but… but it’s good._  
 _I’d like to see where this goes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are notes for this but there are an _unholy amount_ of them, so much that I exceeded the 5000-character limit by about 2000 more when I tried to paste it here. So as of 18th March, [I will link the tumblr posting of the notes in this section](http://kimbk.tumblr.com/post/79965941401/no-one-dies-or-is-suicidal-in-this-fic-only-my) so that they may be read - because some of them are indeed quite important!  
>  I shall post notes in a totally different chapter at the end.


	2. 02

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not know any of the members of Daft Punk, this is strictly a work of fiction and I do not profit from nor claim to represent true aspects of their lives in this story.**
> 
> Haha well this is awkward. The second part is almost as twice as long as the first.  
> Please enjoy cute French boys, dirty dancing, kissing parties, bubblegum-existentialism, metaphysical contemplations and holy christ incredibly nsfw sex

**Pierrot Lunaire (Part 02) - A Daft Punk Fanfiction**

\-----------------------------

It turns out that his definition and Thomas’s definition of ‘calling sometimes’ differ rather significantly. Guy’s idea of ‘sometimes’ is about twice or three calls a week, maximum; but for the other it’s almost every night, which is threatening to cross the line from ‘sometimes’ to ‘all the bloody time’. This will continue even during the times when Thomas isn’t even in Paris, which is quite a feat on its own; for all Guy knows he’s making liberal use of phone boxes or the phones in whatever club he might be in, and somehow managing to get away with over half an hour of use.

But really, it’s not as if he minds. It appears that while he wasn’t paying attention, he’s become quite in need of company himself, and being sought out like this actually feels good. He simply doesn’t feel as if Thomas is taking time away from him, not even when he calls him on Tuesday night - far away from Paris - with a long anecdote about how he got hungry during lunchtime and biked across to Germany just because he could. Guy ought to be studying, but he stays on the phone with the younger man instead, amusedly chatting away and not feeling even the slightest bit of guilt.

He’s a diligent student, but he’s even more diligent towards things that catch his interests, just like everyone else on the planet.  
Thomas just happens to be one of those things at the moment. What he’s doing is perfectly normal.

”- best slice of cake I ever had,” Thomas is still saying from the other end, along with a longing sigh. “if I could remember what on earth it was _called_. Your German skills would have come in handy then, Guy, I wish you could have been with me.”

Guy raises an eyebrow. “Do you,” he states, deadpan, but he’s smiling. “if I might ask. What was in that cake?”

"Lots of apples, vanilla custard baked around it, slightly more like a pie than a traditional cake - but it was delicious. The apples were just the right amount of caramelized, too."

"Heh. You might want to look up ‘ _Elsässer Apfelkuchen_ ' later. Alsatian applecake.”

“ _Mon Dieu._ You’re a star,” Guy shifts the receiver to his other side, feeling a warm glow of pleasure. “I’m coming back to Paris around… two or three in the afternoon tomorrow. Would you like to meet up at the usual spot?”

"If you aren’t going to be too tired, why not."

"Excellent," pause. Guy waits. By all means this pause signals either the near-end of the conversation, or something profound that Thomas isn’t quite able to articulate; tonight it’s the latter. "about… _Punctum_. Have you checked out the place yet?”

"No. I have no business there until Friday."

Thomas sounds very nervous, somehow. “It’s not the most obvious building, can be hard to find at night… You might, uh, want to head over there sometime during the week, just to check where it is, and - and to confirm that you really do want to come. You can back out at any time, honest.”

"Why would I not want to come. Do you have cold feet or something?"

"N-no. Just saying," Thomas stutters, then coughs just slightly before steering the conversation towards a different topic altogether. But in some bizarre example of reverse-psychology this only arouses Guy’s interest even further, and when the call is over he picks up his alarm-clock and sets it one hour ahead of the usual time. He only has classes on Wednesdays every fortnight or so, and this one is free; there’s no harm in doing as asked. And that’s how he ends up biking across several streets on a Wednesday afternoon, when he would normally be having a long, drawn-out lunch, all for Thomas’s sake. Who said devotion never changed anybody? Not me, that’s for sure.

 _Punctum_ is just a block away from their usual club, and just as Thomas said, it’s not easy to spot. Guy only finds it by noticing a large cluster of posters pasted around the door (undecorated and plain with no signs at all); when he disembarks from his bicycle and takes a closer look, he sees that the posters are actually a list of club events that are taking place in the near future, spaced out between three or four days. It doesn’t take long for him to find the date for Friday - and what he sees makes him do a double take.

“ _Eh bien_ ,” pause. “oh. _Merde alors_!” pause. “it’s a gay night! That son-of-a- _bitch_ ,” he exclaims - and then doubles up laughing, right there and then. He laughs for so long and so hard that people stare at him as they pass by as if he were a lunatic; he can’t even work the pedals to get out of there, not when he feels like his sides are about to split. “oh, my _God!_ " he cries, slapping at his thighs and slumping weakly on his bicycle, still overcome with mirth. So that’s why Thomas warned him. This is quite possibly the most considerate, if also the oddest, way of coming out that he’s ever borne witness to.

Eventually he recovers and manages to hold it together long enough to head back home. After locking up his bicycle he runs up the few flights of stairs up to his apartment, not even kicking his shoes off as he hurtles into the bedroom; the receiver is picked up, the now-familiar number dialled, and even though he’s met with the answering machine, Guy’s anything but disappointed. No, quite the opposite.

"It’s me. I did what you asked."

His clock shows half past two. For all he knows, the younger man might be home, currently staring wide-eyed at the phone. “I like your style, Thomas,” he says softly into the receiver. “you bet that I’ll be there on Friday. No question about it.”

——-

Guy comes home late on the twenty-second night, the promised Friday. His backpack is immediately tossed on the bed, followed by all of his clothing, as he discards them and heads straight for the shower. He has no time to be even lamenting the existence of six-to-seven-PM lectures tonight; he washes himself briskly and the moment the last of the shampoo is out of his hair he’s out of there again, With a towel around his waist and another piled around and atop his hair he stoops and peers into his wardrobe, staring ahead for a full minute, before decisively tugging out a few items and closing the door.  
  
On his desk the clock ticks ten to eight. Plenty of time.  
  
"Hmm," he mumbles, scrutinizing his outfit; it’s not one he’s worn before in front of Thomas, though he’s worn a similar combination to various clubs and discos before. Whether it’s going to be a winner in the younger man’s eyes, he doesn’t know, and that (much to his annoyance) makes him slightly nervous. He’s spiced up the combination with two silver bracelets and a chain around his neck, the collar of his shirt left popped open unlike the norm. For a moment he wonders if he’s not being too risqué; a moment’s reflection, however, leads to him discarding that thought rather quickly. If he’s being too risqué, then so be it! He might be going to meet Thomas, but he’s going to be dancing also and dancing at a club is an essentially-public act. He never had cause to be worried about this before, and he has no reason to start now. The chain stays, and Guy takes care of his hair, letting it out of the towel and brushing it slick and dry. Soon it’s falling about his face, loose and casual as per usual.  
  
By the time he’s ready, it’s quarter past eight. He opens his window and sticks a hand out, gauging the temperature: dry, with little chance of rain. There’s no need for a jacket. So he simply shoves his ID and some cash into his pocket, puts his wristwatch on, and looks into the mirror for the final time before nodding and heading out into whatever may come. It generally takes him half an hour to walk towards their usual club and getting to _Punctum_ only takes about five minutes more.  
  
He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but he sincerely hopes that he won’t hate it. Thomas has grown on him, and rejecting anything of his is going to be emotionally difficult.  
  
The doors are open when he gets there; he’s come along late enough that Thomas must have warmed up by now. He flashes his ID at the bouncer and is let inside to mostly-darkness; whenever he enters a new club he often gets a tight feeling almost like nausea in the depths of his stomach, stemming from the unfamiliar environment and nervous apprehension. There’s not much he can do about it except to wait it out, so he finds a free spot and stands completely still until the lights come back and he can see where the hell he’s meant to be.  
  
_I wonder…_  
  
The entire club is soon illuminated in bright red, showing him the layout of the place. There is a bar by the corner, though he feels no temptation for it, and a series of booths by the far wall. The dancefloor is elevated and corded on the sides, and it looks quite full. Guy’s never been one to turn down a challenge, though, so he heads up the few steps to it and peers towards the front. What he sees there makes him grin, a warm balm settling within him, the tightness gone as if it never occurred: Thomas is there, his face serious and eyes sharp as he focuses on what he’s doing, his fingers moving rapidly as he manipulates the record beneath them.  
  
He’s more used to seeing the other’s open smiles and wide-eyed expressions. This is something new.  
But he likes what he’s seeing - Thomas can be intense and precise too, apparently, and that expression shows the _manly_ side of him, leanly handsome and practical. A side of him that he didn’t know until now. Judging by the quality of the music and the amount of people who are dancing, he’s clearly very good at what he’s doing. (Guy’s _very_ attracted to efficiency.)  
  
_There he is… time to make myself known._  
  
Thomas in the meanwhile has been having quite a different time. He has been looking out for Guy since his set began, though only intermittently, because he’s not expecting him for a couple of hours at least. He was told about the lecture that ended at seven, so expecting him to come along right on the dot at eight would be unreasonable. As long as he turns up he’s not going to be disappointed, and he feels confident enough that he’ll come, so he’s mostly just been focusing on the music. No one can fault him for his work ethic.  
  
_Cinq,_ he murmurs as he prepares to switch to another record, his voice totally inaudible even to himself. _six - sept - huit-_  
  
The moment he makes the switch he grins and looks up, pleased with himself, reaching for his bottle of water by the side and taking a small sip out of it before setting it down. Already in his head he’s calculating the minutes until his next move, something that he never loses count of-  
  
"…!"  
  
\- well, _almost_ never. It’s not every day that his work is interrupted by the sight of a slightly-disheveled Guy-Manuel staring directly at him, almost leaning over the DJ-table, hair sexily rumpled as he points at the water bottle. “You don’t mind, yes?” he mouths - and without waiting for the younger man to respond, puts the bottle to his lips and throws his head back as he takes a long swig out of it. Thomas stares; Guy’s drinking half the contents in one go and he can’t muster a single word, not even a simple hello, his eyes fixed on the slight movement of his adam’s apple as he drinks. _What an introduction._ When he’s done with the drink he replaces it in its place before resuming dancing right there, giving Thomas a casual two-thumbs-up as his early comment on the music before letting the beat take over.  
  
The lights change from a deep purple back to ordinary pale, illuminating the crowd true for a moment. Thomas can see that Guy’s lips are parted very gently, his chest heaving with rhythmic breaths; his eyes are also closed, and my _God_ , Thomas never imagined that his eyelashes would be so _long_ and _gorgeous_. And he’s so _close_ , so much that Thomas can almost hear the other’s bracelet clinking lightly even through the blasting music. When he looks closer he can see the silver chain glinting by his chest as well, sliding and bouncing lightly with the rhythm. He’s dressed in tight-fitting jeans and a black polo shirt with gold edges, classy and charming.  
  
Thomas swallows heavily. From the side he fumbles around with a stack of records, finding a mix that he knows features the hardest, most powerful beats out of all of them, and queues it up. There’s no way that he can stop now; he’s begun something and his curiosity must be satiated while the older man is still here. All around Thomas comes the wild cheer of the crowd, a new flood of people jumping in at the change in pace, though right now all he can see is Guy, lost in his element. He waits until the other’s just about facing him before suddenly stopping the music - just long enough to alert the crowd that he’s moving onto something quite different - and making Guy glance over in his direction. Their gazes collide; Thomas’s breath catches; now is the time.  
  
"For you," he mouths, then with shaking hands he restarts the music, the record set in its place. Spin it up, fade it in, and off they go.  
  
Guy stares, stopping his movements for a second, wondering if he really just saw what he saw.  
Then he smirks. It’s high-speed electronica, pounding hard and merciless in his ears; if Thomas is being honest, this mix is entirely for him, an alert to the whole club that Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo is here to dance. _For me._ A gift crafted for him alone. What else can he do but to express his thanks for it?  
  
White xenon flashes like lightening over the dancefloor. Bodies are pulsing, rocking, jumping, swaying in all sorts of angles and directions, the one united factor between all of them being the almost-menacing beats, too fundamental and loud to be ignored. Wisps of delicate static and record scratches swirl through, creating a curiously-delicate balance; that dichotomy has always fascinated Thomas, rigid rhythm and fluid melody, and he knows that people will react differently depending on which side wins over. When the melody is catchier they will become more creative but low-key, often singing along and making up the dance as they go along. When the rhythm is winning out, such as now, everyone tends to move similarly but with more power and passion, bodies locked in primal beat-induction. That is the general trend, anyway; but now he’s witnessing someone just like himself who _understands_ that dynamic, someone who can move easily between the two, out of the natural control of music. Guy’s body is enslaved to the rhythm at first glance, all pumping fists and sharp defined movements, before he easily steps out of time and towards whatever melody Thomas creates. It doesn’t seem to matter how complicated or simple he makes it, Guy can always dance to it, seemingly following his lead but never quite allowing himself to be tamed in one area or the other. He’s never seen Guy’s musical talents, but thinks that he’s showing quite a bit of it in his dancing - and what he’s showing is _fantastic_ , never vulgar, well-composed with only the occasional glances and erotic smiles that say otherwise. He turns to face Thomas fully just as he’s slowly brushing a lock of his hair behind his ear, his hand trailing slowly down from the back of his head down to his chest, teasing softly against the open collar of his shirt - slowly, deliberately, he smiles and _winks_ at the younger man, leaving him quite breathless by the time he’s turned around again.  
  
"More," Thomas moans out faintly; he’s forgotten that the mic was on, but the music is so loud that he goes unnoticed. "Guy. Oh, _Guy_ , oh, my God. _More_.”  
  
But as mentioned earlier, what happens in a club is necessarily public, and a display such as Guy’s isn’t going to go unnoticed for long. Thomas is keeping count under his breath for the next song, scratching at the record rhythmically and occasionally stealing glances at the older man, when he sees a stranger approaching him from the side. The light is deep blue now, so dark that he can’t make out the other man’s features save for long hair like Guy’s (except tied in a ponytail); he has a joint in his hand and is offering it out to Guy, doubtless complimenting his dancing, or even asking whether he wants to play or something to that vein. Guy bends down to inhale deeply from the joint, soon pulling away with a faint laugh; the stranger pats him a few times on the back and white-hot jealousy sears through Thomas, so much that he misses his cue and has to scramble to cover it up. _Absolutely ridiculous_ ; the joint’s been passed around again and it’s clear enough that neither the stranger nor Guy are interested in each other save for that brief moment of contact, but it actually _hurts_ to see them. It’s even more painful for him that he has to keep his features neatly schooled, lest someone notice, and that the older man is entirely oblivious to the conflict raging within him.  
  
The other’s eyes look a little glassy from the effects of the joint, but not overly so. His lips are quirked in a smile, confident and easy. He runs both his hands down his chest, sliding them all the way down to his thighs and throwing a sultry glance to the side. It’s so quick and ambiguous that Thomas can’t tell whether it was meant for that stranger or himself; the dread and excitement rising from both possibilities keep him hooked, though, long enough to see the edge of Guy’s pink tongue darting out to lick at his bottom lip. Thomas mimicks the motion without noticing that he’s doing so, his mind filling with a fresh plethora of images as to what that tongue might be able to do for him. Never before has a person made him feel so naked without actually taking off a single stitch of clothing. Guy is young, he’s full of vitality, he’s _beautiful._  
  
He wants it. He needs it. He needs _him_.  
His cock throbs at the thought, and without quite realizing it he’s panting, grinding his hips slightly into the DJ-table with the beat of the music, almost in sync with Guy’s movements and yet distant enough to keep his sanity. He usually loves DJing but right now he can’t wait for it to be over, just so he can be alone with Guy again. He feels like a forced voyeur, stuck unloved behind a wall while watching his partner being appreciated and passed from one person to another.  
  
To each his preferred field, but that position is not what Thomas wants; no, if there is to be a party, he wants it to be a party just for two.  
  
The large LED clock over the dancefloor finally flickers to quadruple-zero, indicating midnight, while he’s contemplating all of this. (Thomas nearly cries with joy.) The older man stops dancing as soon as the music dies down and glances up at the clock; ‘wait for you at the door’, he mouths to Thomas twice, nods meaningfully, and slips away. “That’s all from me, folks,” the younger man announces quickly into the mic. “my good friend Pierre is taking over now, right up until closing time! Have a good night.”  
  
He usually chats on for a little longer than that. No matter.  
It takes him less than five minutes to pack up everything that he needs. He has to leave by the back, but doubling towards the main entrance he finds Guy waiting as expected; he still seems a little out of breath, skin faintly glistening with sweat in the moonlight. Without a word Thomas comes up to him and offers him his arm - Guy takes it, just as matter-of-factly, and together they walk down the small alleyway hiding the club from the main street, letting the silence speak for themselves.  
  
——-  
  
Once down the alleyway Thomas turns left, and Guy follows. They don’t say anything. They simply walk, arm in arm, looking straight ahead and never towards each other, until they come to the end of that road and cross over, heading left again and seeing the club that they first met in a distance ahead. “Drink?” Guy offers, feeling that the other deserves one. Thomas shakes his head, though, so he doesn’t press and instead gestures towards a nearby bench, steering them towards it and sitting down.  
  
The bench is cold, but they barely feel it. They gaze for a while at the lit windows of the buildings in front of them.  
Tonight this city is two-dimensional compared to what the two see in each other.  
  
"… How was it?"  
  
Guy immediately understands. “You missed a few cues,” he says, tapping his fingers lightly on the bench. Thomas is a little crestfallen that _that_ had to be the first comment out of his mouth, but doesn’t say anything, because it is true. “I don’t think anyone noticed, in all fairness, I might not have picked it up if I wasn’t a musician myself and even then not unless I was really, really close. When you were putting that mix on - I don’t know if I was just seeing things, but I think you were saying ‘for you’?” the younger man blushes but nods. “yes, at that point. Pause was a little too long. But other than that - speaking purely on a dancer’s level-“  
  
He breaks off there, and leans forwards a little, taking in a deep breath. A closer examination reveals that he is _blushing_. Thomas stares, not sure what to make of this development, before the older man raises his head again and gives him almost the exact replica of that sultry-sweet smile he’d had back in the club.  
  
"Best set I’ve heard in a long time," Guy says. "thank you for inviting me, Thomas. You have incredible talent. Made me want to dance all throughout the night."  
  
And then _he’s_ blushing, too, but he no longer cares. “Would you have?” he asks quietly, leaning in close - so close that he can feel the other’s breath against his neck. “if I’d never stopped?”  
  
"Yes."  
  
That’s all that needs to be said. Guy observes that Thomas has the warmest brown eyes, nicely counterpointed with light-hazel flecks around the center; the streetlights reflect almost-russet against them, and he blinks slowly, gazing deeply into them with both scientific and personal interest. Thomas doesn’t seem uncomfortable either, so they stay that way until a sudden gust of wind startles them both into breaking their stare.  
  
"… Getting cold. I shouldn’t keep you any longer."  
  
"Oh, no, I didn’t mind," the younger man shakes his head, but he stands when Guy does, acknowledging that the hour is late. "do you have things to do tomorrow?"  
  
"Exam preparation, as I said before. So I’m probably going to be out of touch for the whole weekend and up to Friday - I’ll still be at home every night, though, do call me."  
  
He thinks he heard a plaintive note in Guy’s voice. It has been a night full of surprises.  
Unreal city, painted tender-turquoise by the springtime dusk.  
  
"I will. You bet I will. Well then," Thomas smiles softly, and inclines his head. "until we meet again - _adieu_.”  
  
_"Adieu."_  
  
An awkward pause. This is around the point where Thomas should turn and begin walking, but he hesitates again. “… _Adieu.”_  
  
_"Adieu."_  
  
” _Adieu,_ " and another pause. "… _et merci.”_  
  
_Merci._ Thomas winces almost as soon as the word leaves his mouth. What an underwhelming thing to be saying after all of this, how ridiculously _aloof_ , to be responding to Guy’s deeply-sensual and unrestrained display with naught but a _thank you_. He half expects Guy to laugh at him, or at least regard him with that half-disdainful look that’s so often on his face. It’s strange, how things about Guy that he had either never noticed or took for granted in him before catch his eye now, forcing him to be more self-conscious, and Thomas doesn’t know what to feel about it except ‘vaguely uncomfortable’. The first few times he had approached Guy, he’d simply thought the contemptuous expression part of his ‘normal self’, even rather endearing. But he knows that that’s not the truth now, that the older man is capable of the most beautiful smiles, pleasantly low chuckles and seductive half-gazes; something within him actually _aches_ when he thinks of Guy looking at him with contempt again, a burning sensation of mixed embarrassment and dejection, because deep inside he knows that this is not a game any more. Less than a month ago they were nameless strangers to each other, to look and objectify according to a certain perception - but he’s no longer content to be ‘just another person’ to the older man now, the nights they have spent have breached a barrier between them. They’ve been set along a trajectory now - at least Thomas feels that they are - and nothing frightens him more than the idea of Guy rejecting it and leaving him on his own.  
  
That’s how this entire situation began in the first place.  
He’d first approached Guy in the club because he hadn’t wanted to be alone. The punch in the face had certainly left a mark, a reminder that he had interacted with someone; it was pure luck that the older man proved to be good to talk to and quite accepting in the end.  
  
And it is not too much to ask, surely, that he be allowed to hold onto that piece of luck for a while.  
  
Thomas half turns away and closes his eyes. He’s the one who got them into this in the first place - and he-  
  
"… Thomas."  
  
_\- I just… I… I want…_  
  
And then Guy’s hand is touching his cheek, just gently enough so that he turns the younger man to face him once again. His palm is warm and smooth, fingers only very slightly calloused (if at all); Thomas tenses at the touch but relaxes into it just as quickly, about to say something before he’s silenced by the sensation of the other’s thumb tracing the curve of his mouth. It takes all the self-consciousness he has left of their surroundings for him to not give in and part his lips in response, whether for a kiss or a soft kittenish lick.  
  
_I want this. I want you._  
  
Guy trails his hand slowly down the side of his face, down to his neck, stopping just short of his collarbone. Thomas shivers visibly, half ready to surrender to him right there and then, but before he can express anything of that sort his hand is lifted away. It’s not something to feel overly disappointed about, however; Guy’s face is outwardly emotionless, but he too is looking at him with barely-restrained desire flickering just behind his eyes, conveying the silent but definite message - that when they next meet, they may not be able to remain so chaste.  
  
” _Bonne nuit_ ,” the older man murmurs, and squeezes his shoulder. Thomas swallows heavily, looks down at him, and smiles.  
  
"And to you. I’ll call you soon."  
  
That potential will do for now.  
  
Guy turns, nods once to him, and begins walking away along the pavement. Thomas stands and watches him go for about a minute, then he too crosses the road and starts back to his apartment, his headphones a comfortable weight around his neck. He’s immensely tired - with Guy gone the adrenaline has worn off and he feels as if he could sleep for a whole day - but surprisingly his head is still relatively clear, letting him busy himself with recalling the events of the night as he walks beneath the _marroniers_ and between the passersby on the streets. They don’t know what happened to him and don’t care, but he has never cared less about them not caring before this night.  
  
_(Dites-moi, pourquoi, la vie est belle?)_  
  
It is beginning to rain. Just a brief shower, not worth even hurrying or pulling out an umbrella for.  
Thomas however has enough sense to stash his headphones in his bag before he continues walking, coming to a stop where the pavement curves towards a bridge. It is quiet with little traffic. He stops by the middle of the bridge, glancing over it down to the depths of the Seine below, raindrops speckling its surface periodically and blurring all reflection from above. Thomas raises his face to the sky, his eyes staring, lips parted gently at first in wonder and then in a smile as he lets the cool rain trickle down his skin and soak into his clothes. It may be dark and cold out, but within his own world the sun is shining - harder - brighter - _hotter_ than ever. Enraptured he gazes at the moon, feeling quite dizzy and yet entirely even-headed, and observes how its light paints the raindrops milky-cream as they fall and bounce lightly off the railings, and thinks of Guy.  
  
What can he be doing now?  
Is he back home already?  
Or is he still on his way, getting soaked through, his hair glistening?  
  
He looks down at his hands, then back at his watch: twenty to one, still safely within that magic midnight hour. An hour ago he was back at the club, cold metal and sound waves beneath his fingers, music thrumming in his ear, gaze fixed on the object of his desire. And now he is here amongst the cool rain and the icy river breeze, drunken with bliss, the rain kissing over his young eager lips. _That’s what I am_ , he thinks, _drunk, drunk out of my mind._  
  
_(Est-ce que, parce-que, tu m’aime?)_  
  
The old masters, they all had their deities and Muses to call on during times of crisis and rapture.  
And now Thomas too is supplicant to another: a young man, outwardly quite an ordinary-looking city boy, but to Thomas the nonpareil of electric sensuality. He closes his eyes and lets a shiver of pleasure run down his spine; with his vision gone his whole world becomes rain, dissolving into notes of alternating pitch, liquid glockenspiel. For they are musicians, he and Guy both, and to them every single sound in the world has a nameable note and musical potential attached to it. To them the flow of time and life can be represented entirely in _solfège_. To them, all around them, the rain is _singing_ , its rhythm more organic and yet more structured than they can ever replicate; by virtue of _living_ they are also part of this performance, every breath and every heartbeat and every laugh mingling into the atmosphere and into a hymn of existence.  
  
And _that_ \- the fact that the two of them are apart and yet together as part of a whole - is as beautiful as anything can be.  
Guy and himself the creator, under the same sky and the same rain. Moonstruck players, hand in hand along the same road.  
What can he do, but to give his heart to Guy?  
  
_Sing, darling Pierrot, enchanted by the light of your Moon._  
  
He stands there until the weather begins to wane, then turns around abruptly to head back, aware that he’s beginning to freeze. Across the bridge, then along a block or two, towards a tall modern building; outwardly sterile, but it’s where he lives and brings his music to light when he’s not elsewhere. A quick jaunt up the elevator and he’s back home in his modest apartment: he takes his clothes off, tosses them in the washing machine, takes out his headphones to check for water damage (there’s none), then leaves everything to dry out before entering his bedroom. The only bathroom is through there - grabbing a full-size towel off the rack he towels himself and his hair dry, again tossing that aside before throwing himself onto the bed, letting out a pleased groan as his back creaks and settles.  
  
” _Guy_ ,” he breathes out luxuriously as he loses himself in the warmth of his sheets, sighing and rubbing his cheek softly on the pillow. Not two hours apart and he’s already missing him, wondering what he’s doing; Thomas is barely short of getting out of bed and calling him up, even if it results in Guy scolding him for doing so at an unholy hour. And perhaps he would have done exactly that if not for the thoughts he entertained on the way home. Being over-eager isn’t endearing to anyone, much less Guy; he’d do better if he waited. With that in mind Thomas tucks himself into the covers fully, thinking of the sculpted curve of Guy’s smile in the moonlight, sepia-pink and tempting.  
  
_He took my arm,_ he thinks to himself, revisiting the sensation of the older man being pressed against him for a moment, the way he had been panting softly with effort and yet remained bright-eyed and perfectly in control. What he’s shown the younger man tonight is a mere reflection of his Dionysian self - closer compared to the cool demeanour that he had during those nightly meetings they’ve had, though, and what Thomas saw nevertheless holds immense promise. Thinking of Guy unrestrained is making him blush; there’s a stirring in his loins, but he’s not doing anything to assuage it, opting to bury himself deeper into the soft warmth of his bed while losing himself in memories instead. Guy is far more than just a lustful fantasy; the physical element will be satisfied in time, no doubt, he’s more interested in maintaining whatever this might be. The half-moon gleams his bedroom quite blue, and Thomas finds himself quietly humming an old nursery rhyme as he lulls himself to sleep, his mind slowly settling as the familiar comfort washes over him. With that comes blissful drowsiness, and he welcomes it, eyelids beginning to slide shut. _There’s nothing to worry about,_ he tells himself. They are simply taking their course, he and Guy both, and everything is going to be all right.  
  
_(Au clair de la lune, mon ami Guillaume.)_  
  
——-  
  
They keep to themselves for the week following the night in _Punctum_ , letting the excitable tension simmer between them, only nightly phone calls of varying lengths aiding them through the process. There’s something between them, something harshly electrifying and quite out of their control, that they don’t yet feel can be worked out face to face. There’s that silent promise that they had shared too, the last time they saw each other - the next time they meet have to be a special occasion, they can’t draw it out with the usual chatter at the club, pretending as if nothing changed between them. It’s now too late for that.  
  
Still, it’s not as if they’ve shyed away from the topic. With the barrier of phone lines and distance between them they have been as open as they could manage towards each other, sharing up-to-date details of their lives and continuously trying to figure out what is going on. They see no need to angst about it alone; it’s a private but _shared_ feeling, this constant stab of purposeful desire, what use is there in leaving the other out of it? Thomas comes clean about having been turned on by Guy’s dancing on Saturday, and the fact is accepted in total sincerity (if also with some amusement) by the older man. Ever since then they’ve been trying to express the depth of their emotions and to what extent they share it - it’s not as complex a problem as figuring out whether what they feel for each other is _genuine_ (they’re sure about this at least), but it’s still proving to be a beast to answer.  
  
"I thought about you during the exam," Guy is speaking into the receiver, cradled between his cheek and shoulder in the way he’s used to doing by now; it’s nine o’clock on Wednesday night, Thomas on the other end, nearing the second hour of their conversation. They’ve talked nearly nonstop since dinner, and somehow managed to reserve the topic of most interest until this point. "and it was really very nice, having something else to focus on instead of worrying about my grades."  
  
"You did, did you? What brought that on?"  
  
Since Saturday they’ve mostly talked in the context of their previous conversations and their nights together, not so much about _Punctum._ One of their unspoken excuses for this is that Guy’s going through his end-of-term exams at the moment and doesn’t need the emotional distraction; it’s not the best excuse, especially because Thomas can just sense that the two of them have been thinking of almost nothing else anyway in their free time, but at the same time there was hardly any sense in breaching the topic before Guy did so himself. “There was a question about the concept of artificial emotional intelligence… whether that was conceivable and what that would imply for humans. As if somehow robots having emotions was a _threat t_ o mankind,” he scoffs, before becoming more thoughtful. “… but… well, that got me thinking, halfway through my essay, about the nature of emotions and how artificiality was the least of our problems regarding it. What _is_ it about emotions _as a whole_ that people get uneasy thinking of them in robots? We don’t react like that to the existence of robots, or even to them having a humanlike appearance. Makes me think that all of us need to sort out our views on what an emotion entails before we make judgements on what they’re like when applied to machines. Emotions get left out of the picture a lot in what I study, Thomas, there’s some kind of dominant view that they play little to no part in rationality - but I disagree, emotions should be part of any well-balanced _Weltanschauung_.”  
  
"That means-"  
  
” _La conception du monde._ ‘Worldview’. But I’m getting off-topic. Halfway through my essay I had the thought - there’s a theory out there that states that emotions happen largely for utility’s sake, see. That it affects the behaviour of the agent that feels and tries to gear them towards performing actions with the best consequences. If you never felt anger or the urge to defend yourself from a threat you’d survive pretty poorly in the wild, for one. All that led to the conclusion that this - whatever it is I feel towards you, our times spent together - is working towards something good for me.”  
  
Thomas adjusts the receiver closer to his ear.  
Here it comes; he takes a slight breath and swallows, his mouth feeling dry. “Isn’t that an overly _rigid_ way of looking at it?”  
  
"Not half as rigid as what it made your body do, T-Bang," Thomas stifles a chuckle, blushing red all over, and is immensely grateful that Guy can’t see him. "but well, I agree with you. Fairly certain I wasn’t admiring you at your gig because I wanted you to do something for me, but just because you were fantastic and it felt good to admire you. Now only if I could describe what that feeling is exactly, it’s killing me not being able to pinpoint it. Do you feel that way too?"  
  
"Most certainly. It’s not just friendliness, lust or even romance. We’re not talking classic love-at-first-sight here."  
  
_"Mais non."_  
  
"But something beyond those things."  
  
_"Mais oui."_  
  
"I wonder if we’d ever find the word for it."  
  
"Something amazing," Guy says. "something - _powerful_. Something that neither of us has words for in this language. _Do you understand what I mean?_ "  
  
English has over seven times the vocabulary of French. It’s a wilder language, untamed and gnarled unlike the cool logical beauty of the other.  
But the sheer ground that English can cover means that there are real gems to be found there, conveying what they require better than the actual Romance language that they speak.  
  
Goodbye to _romance_ , that multi-faceted word, conveying anything from a linguistical description to the sickness unto death.  
  
_"I think I do,"_ the younger man responds in the same manner, his English accent clearer than Guy’s own. _"not quite for what you feel, no one but you knows that. For me, rather - I can’t say exactly what it is I feel for you, but it leads me to question the being that I am. Whether I felt such emotions before. Whether it’s safe. Whether it’s right, that it’s not something I must ‘apologize’ to my soul for. This was below the surface before. But it came out when I saw you dance."_  
  
A chuckle. _"You still dwell on that night?"_  
  
_"Yes, because it’s true. What is the word. Um. ‘Embrace’. If I hadn’t been working, I’d have come straight up to you, embraced you from behind, danced with you all night."_  
  
"I don’t think I’d have managed it with most other kinds of music, if I’m honest," Guy’s back to French again, smooth and coy. "my compliments to the DJ," he pauses, heavily, before resuming in a softer tone. "and… I would do it all over again, you know. Dance. Just for _him_.”  
  
Thomas closes his eyes. He’s hugging himself with his left arm without quite realizing it.  
His lips tremble and brush against the mouthpiece of the receiver, just barely. What wouldn’t he give to be with Guy right now.  
  
"Thomas."  
  
All his worry and uneasiness have melted away. He inhales deeply, opens his eyes, looks ahead - and knows that in that instant, his course has become clear.  
  
"Are you there?"  
  
As for Guy’s point of view, well.  
He’s not going to find out anything about it if he doesn’t make a move.  
  
"Yes, I am. Just thinking. You said your exams would be over on Friday, didn’t you? I think we should celebrate that."  
  
"I did. Come three o’clock in the afternoon and I’ll be free again. Why, what do you have in mind?"  
  
"Come dancing with me," Thomas breathes down the phone. "there’s a place… a small nightclub, not the one we were in last week… I’ve been a DJ for the place twice, I know it quite well. But I actually want to dance _with_ you. It’s,” he stops to take a breath. “it’s quite near… where I live… only a short walk, maybe fifteen minutes…”  
  
Neither of them have actually disclosed where they live to the other. But if Guy takes this invitation for Friday night, _he_ might find out. The implications are clearly not lost on the older man, as he lets out a thoughtful ‘hmm’ before responding. “Quite practical, that. What’s the name of the place?”  
  
” _Jouissance._ You might know it.”  
  
_Jouissance_ is explicitly a gay club. Thomas thinks that that’s about as bold as he can really get, and even then it’s a gamble because Guy really might not know the place. The older man is silent for a while on the other end and Thomas anxiously cradles the phone closer to his ear, ready to explain, give directions or even offer an alternate venue just in case Guy wouldn’t be comfortable otherwise. Much to his relief, though, when Guy speaks up again there is an amused-and-flattered edge to his tone. “Ah, _oui. Jouissance_. I haven’t been there for a while - who better to go with than you? Are you all right for nine, half-nine?”  
  
"Half nine will do," Thomas repeats in a daze. "I… I’m looking forward to seeing you, then."  
  
A low chuckle. “The feeling’s mutual. Well, then. I mustn’t run up the phone bills too much for either of us. I imagine that we’ll next talk on Friday, then.”  
  
They need the next day off from each other, purely for the sake of building up anticipation like a drug; it’ll make them appreciate each other better. It’s not the ideal way to go about things, but then Thomas’s ‘ideal situation’ also involves physically being with Guy right now, so he’s hardly one to complain. “Yes. _Bonne nuit, Guy_.”  
  
_"Fais de beaux rêves."_  
  
Thomas makes sure that the receiver is set down properly before letting out a loud cheer - _"Yes!"_ \- and pumping his fists in excitement. Then he immediately rushes over to his wardrobe and flings the doors wide open, going through every item of clothing that he has in advance for Friday night; he’s dressing to impress, now, and he ought to pick out an outfit sooner rather than later so he can just throw it on and head out without hesitation or trouble. This energy will keep him fueled through all of Thursday and half the day after, and even though Thomas doesn’t talk to Guy on Thursday and thus has no idea of what the other is doing, the older man is terribly excited, too.  
  
So it goes.  
  
——-  
  
Things finally come to a head on the promised Friday, the twenty-ninth night. _Jouissance_ has deceptively-plain front doors, though there seems to be something major going on in there tonight; Guy is the first to arrive, though he sees the crowd milling by the doors and wisely stays a little off to the side to wait. It just so happens that the spot he chooses to wait in is closer to the mouth of the street, which leads out eventually to a bridge across the Seine. It’s no different to any particular bridge across the Seine, sure, but by the time he’s smoked his first cigarette down to the filter he can see Thomas walking jauntily across said bridge and closer towards him; _so that’s where he lives, across there_ , he thinks, and can barely move for a moment in the exhilaration that thought affords him. The closer he can be to Thomas the better - quite without Guy realizing it, he’s become starved for the other’s presence. In a single month, the doors to his world have been opened to Thomas, just matter-of-factly _like that_ \- and looking back on it, Guy wouldn’t have wanted it otherwise.  
  
The taller man has spotted him by this point. “ _Bonsoir!_ " he calls and waves wildly before hurrying across the road; Guy tosses away the filter of his cigarette and rushes to meet him despite himself. They come face to face within seconds: Thomas pink-cheeked and out of breath but grinning; Guy, considerably more composed but bright-eyed with anticipation.  
  
"Took you a while," the older man hears himself saying, but neither he nor Thomas are really listening at that point because they’re too busy drinking each other in.  
Besides, that’s not what either of them needs to hear. Guy’s wearing something similar to what he wore last week, but the younger man is quite something else tonight: a leather jacket with dark jeans and a button-up shirt in a particularly fetching avocado-green shade, all complimenting his tall slim figure nicely without looking too casual or overdone. It would have been a difficult combination on anyone else but Thomas. (Even Guy, ever the minimalist, finds himself impressed.) For a moment they just stand there and smile at each other, the words _I missed you_ hanging unspoken between them - and they’re so close that they could probably reach out to greet the other in an embrace - but now, now _right this second_ , that is not the time.  
  
"… You look nice," Guy utters again, then corrects himself. "not just nice. _Amazing._ Made an effort for me?”  
  
"Yes," is Thomas’s blunt and honest answer, and the older man just barely holds back a smirk. He’s trying to keep up a kind of cool, detached demeanour and being adorably bad at it. "and you look fantastic yourself, but I think I made that clear enough last time. Anyway," he clears his throat and peers ahead at the crowd. "what’s going on over there? Do you know?"  
  
"Not at all. I was wondering if _you_ could tell me.”  
  
The taller man looks utterly mystified, himself. “ _Non,_ I wasn’t aware of anything happening here tonight - come with me, let’s have a look-“  
  
" -Thomas, for God’s sake, just _give me your hand_ like an ordinary human being. We’re _clubbing_ , not out dining at the Hilton,” Guy laughs, and takes the other’s offered arm, clinging closer this time to actually bury his face in his shoulder. The leather is well-worn and polished, and when he breathes in, he’s delighted by the rusty-sweet aroma of leather mingling with the smoother undertones of Thomas’s scent. “are you always this formal to your friends?”  
  
And then Thomas feels like an idiot. An idiot in an avocado shirt, which is still quite honestly the best kind of idiot. “ _Désolé_ ,” he says - then almost immediately launches into rambling even more frantically, his nerves shot to hell from seeing Guy at last and being told that his tension is entirely unnecessary. “God, I’m sorry, Guy, I’m really not any good at this. I - I’ve been wanting to see you for the whole past week and I nearly got run over by a cyclist while coming over but you’re _here_ and we’re going to _dance_ and I - uh, can I please - I, oh _Christ_ do you _really_ want to hold my hand?”  
  
"Too late, already holding it," Guy’s hand (just as warm as before) searches for Thomas’s and closes around it, and the younger man looks almost delirious with joy. "let’s go."  
  
Now that they’re holding hands, they look more naturally part of the crowd; from what they can see, the three bouncers at the front doors are handing out something, though what it is they can’t tell until they move in a little closer. The people in front of them are squeezed through eventually and a tall bouncer with whitish-blond hair and sunglasses - hey, if any job calls for sunglasses at night, surely it’s that of security - stops them, asking curtly for ID, which they both produce without fanfare. “It’s sticker night,” the bouncer hollers, and shoves said stickers in each of their hands - two in the shape of lipsticked kisses, two in the shape of an outstretched palm - before calling to everyone in listening distance. He’s obviously done this quite a few times in the past hour or two. “rules: anyone who sees it can come up to you, nonverbal consent and all, think before using them. You don’t have to use them, check that no one’s put anything on you without noticing, don’t be a dick and stick those where they’re not wanted.”  
  
"So what do they mean?" Guy asks, holding up the hand-shaped sticker.  
  
"Lips are for where you want to be kissed. Hands, where you don’t mind being touched and groped."  
  
” _Mon Dieu._ Could I have a whole _handful_.”  
  
"Only if you put them on your ass and give me a handful of _that_ ,” the bouncer replies, deadpan - but his voice is tinged with amusement and he’s quite clearly checking Guy out all over from behind his dark glasses. Guy smiles daringly, while Thomas stays close behind, the slightly-jealous expression back on his face. “no. _No_ , Christ, don’t you know that others need that more than you do. Take this and go away. _Bonsoir_.”  
  
He gives Guy three more of the same and shoos him through; the older man takes them with a gleeful expression and hurries ahead. “That your _petit-ami_?” the bouncer asks Thomas, who hesitates only for a second before shaking his head, then pausing, then nodding. “not quite yet, eh? Tell the bartender that your first rounds are on Jean-Luc and _go_ , you’ll lose him in the crowd.”  
  
_Jean-Luc_ seems too genteel a name for someone working in here, but Thomas has no time to dwell on that. “ _Merci_ ,” he calls as he too runs into the club, catching up to Guy just in time to come face to face with the dance floor and intense, shameless hedonism. The club is crowded and not exactly huge, but far more alive than the one that they first met in and have frequented; from the moment they enter they’re confronted by a solid wall of sound, the drum machine thrumming in their ears, at once in the middle of and nowhere in the action. To their immediate right is the bar, which doesn’t have seats at all; just past the doorway a couple in identical biker jackets and short blond mohawks are kissing, plastic cups of water crushed in their hands as they lose themselves in enviable passion. Smoke is thick in the air, both from the aroma of cigarettes and menthol and the cloud of the smoke-machine, and Guy smiles, knowing that this is one of the most involved dancefloors that he’s ever seen. Nearly everyone in the club is dancing, some glass-eyed and hypnotized, enslaved to the deafening music.  
  
Just the way it ought to be.  
  
"What do you want to drink," Thomas hollers in his ear. "we’re practically obliged, our drinks are on the bouncer apparently. I’ll get them."  
  
” _What._ What on earth did you _say_ to him?”  
  
Perhaps later on Thomas might be able to recount the conversation, but again, this is not the place for it. “I didn’t say anything! I think he just liked the look of us?”  
  
"Oh. Oh, well," another couple are entering behind them, and Guy quickly ushers them both to the side, where they’re not in anyone’s way. There’s nowhere to sit, so they need to make use of any free space they can come across. "I’d like a Kir then. I’ll wait for you here."  
  
It’s a struggle to make his orders heard, let alone be served quickly, but stating that ‘Jean-Luc said this round is on him’ elicits the desired response, and Thomas makes it out safely with the drinks in hand: Kir for the older man, a classic Black Russian for himself. He can do with the caffeine. Guy’s still there waiting for him, gazing thoughtfully at the stickers; he’s only a few steps away when a young man (possibly even younger than either of them) wearing a denim vest comes up behind Guy. “Hey,” he’s saying - it’s not like he can be _heard_ , but Thomas can see his mouth moving well enough, and Guy throws him a glance. “are you alone? - No? With a friend maybe? Sexy hair, that-“  
  
Kir is normally served in a normal-sized wineglass. Not so in this bar, where it’s within a champagne flute instead. The narrower shape means that Thomas can simply hold that one between the index and middle fingers of his left hand, whilst balancing the glass with the Black Russian on his palm, freeing up his other hand - to snatch away the man’s arm as he reaches to touch Guy’s hair. “He’s _taken_ ,” he states coolly, casually passing the older man his drink without taking his eyes off the intruder. Within a few seconds he blinks, surprised at his own boldness, but not before the young man shakes himself free of his grip and mumbles something, disappearing into the crowd.  
  
_Damn. Where did that come from?_  
  
Guy taps him on the shoulder. “ _Merci_ ,” he says, just audible over the music. “I get that a lot. I think it’s my hair. What’s so goddamn _amazing_ about it, I don’t know, but they always want to touch it and _Christ_ I hate it when they do that.”  
  
"As you should! How rude."  
  
"I’d have pushed him off, but I’m not exactly complaining about what you did," the older man smirks, and raises his glass to his lips, downing over half of the Kir in one gulp. "jealous, eh?"  
  
Thomas hasn’t been able to put a name to the occasional stab of pain in his chest whenever he saw Guy being touched by another, those moments having been infrequent, but _jealousy_ does seem like an apt term, and he willingly admits to that fact. “I suppose,” he says, thinking back to the young man and feeling increasingly vindicated. “I didn’t wait a whole week just to see others getting their hands on you. Those stickers. Are you putting them on?”  
  
"Well, yes, they’re a fantastic idea. Unless you don’t want me to?"  
  
_No, Guy, that’s not what I meant. I’m possessive, not tyrannical._  
  
"Please put them on wherever you want - but if you could stay close to me," Thomas rests his hand, cool from the glass, upon Guy’s and gives it a squeeze. "I’m young and selfish and I want to be the first one to touch you."  
  
A bemused glance is given in response, but Guy quickly does as asked: two hand-shaped ones on his back, close to the waist, a lipstick-print on the back of his neck, another peeking coyly from between the gap of his collar, and another hand-shaped one on his chest. A beginner’s map, meant for Thomas’s eyes only, telling him brazenly where he must go. Guy’s obviously been putting thought to this for a while, his movements being smooth and without hesitation, and the younger man watches in fascination as he sips at his Black Russian. He’s not even paying attention to the taste nor the light-headed caffeine rush; no, all he can see is Guy, who’s throwing him a cheeky smile as he peels off the last two hand-shaped stickers from their backing. “ _Voila_ ,” he exclaims, slapping them onto his own backside, and Thomas nearly chokes on his drink. Almost on cue the music changes, one quite familiar to the two of them. “well, then! Shall we dance?”  
  
"Hell yes! It’s _Romanthony_ ,” Thomas yells as he tugs at Guy’s hand, pulling him through the crowd; the dancefloor is lowered like a large rectangular pit and he half-supports him down the stairs, resting his hand near his waist so that they won’t lose each other in the flood of people. His hand brushes against the other’s backside, against a sticker, and he grins to himself - surely Guy wouldn’t complain, if he so brazenly gave his consent - and strokes along the curve, squeezing gently. Guy has generous hips for a man, and judging by the blush on his cheeks and the way he gasps and leans into his palm, he _loves_ being touched there.  
  
_Interesting._  
  
_"Talking through the night, well."_  
  
They might have moved closer to the DJ, but now that Thomas has initiated this, it suits them well to stay near the edge where they already are. They can focus on each other instead of the crushing pile of bodies nearer to the center. Guy shakes off the sensation of the other’s hand on his backside and nods along the music at first, soon building up a sensual rhythm, feeling his body warm up to his demands. Just behind him he can feel Thomas starting to dance as well, though his pace is slower and more purposeful. They’re so close that he can just about sense the other’s breath on the nape of his neck.  
  
He could turn around to face him, but he doesn’t just yet. It’s intense enough with the strobe blaring, the music thrumming in his ears, knowing that Thomas is undressing him with his eyes.  
  
_"And now you say you want me…"_  
  
Thomas is already turned on, he can practically scent it in the air. Guy feels audacious - he’s at once entirely Thomas’s to look and touch, but never quite looking back at him, never quite giving him his full attention. All around them he can see couples dancing just like them, some with bare torsos grinding, some wrapped almost entirely around each other, some mimicking intercourse in not-at-all-subtle ways. Nothing there is unfamiliar to him, but he never feels very involved with such things unless with a partner, and that feeling is particularly strong tonight. He sings along to the lyrics under his breath, tilting his head back to expose his neck, sweeping his hair back.  
  
_"And now you say I’m hot…"_  
  
But while his guard is down the younger man moves in, his arm darting out and wrapping around his chest, pressing him back to fall against his body.  
His fingers trace against the contours of his muscles, lean and defined beneath his shirt, and Guy lets out a gasp.  
  
_"Ohh, girl, I know you wanna play-"_  
  
They’re both deprived of words, left with only their bodies to express their intentions. Thankfully, they’re both good at it, though Thomas is the one quicker to put it into practice. He grabs the other’s hips with both hands, pulling him close so that Guy’s nigh grinding against him; the older man tenses for only a moment before relaxing, letting Thomas run his hand up his chest, trembling at the sensation and mouthing out a _what are you doing_. Guy is ever more beautiful for being mute.  
  
"Seducing you," Thomas whispers in his ear (though he’s only heard faintly), pressing him tighter to his chest. He’s too tall, so he bends his knees, sliding slowly against Guy’s back; there’s a sticker on the nape of his neck and Thomas does as it commands, kissing and licking, peeling the sticker off in the process so that no one else can see it and mistake it as an invitation intended for _them_. Guy shivers hard at the contact; dulled by wine and euphoria it still prickles like static, where Thomas is kissing him, and  
  
and oh god it feels  
  
_"But I think not…"_  
  
it feels  
  
_fantastic._  
  
_"… Well, the ball and chain,"_  
  
Thomas trails his tongue up Guy’s neck, tasting the faint hint of sweat and cologne, right up the curve of his jaw. Guy moans - the sound is lost in the music, but Thomas feels it vibrating through his vocal cords well enough - and tries to turn his head to face him, but the taller man pulls away just before their lips meet.  
This is torture. Guy no longer knows whether it’s him clinging to Thomas or the other way around; reason has abandoned him, and even as the music pulses through their bodies he can feel every restraint in him softening, surrendering, melting into the other man’s touch.  
  
_"Ain’t never gonna break me down, well…"_  
  
His eyes are glazing over. Guy moans again, eyelids fluttering shut, the strobe faintly dancing behind them still; but with his vision gone there is only himself and Thomas behind him, Thomas is all that he can feel, Thomas has become his entire world. He can feel the younger man’s hands sliding down the front of his body and he just lets him, not even resisting when his fingers brush and trace the fabric of his trousers, his erection straining hard behind it; his lips part in a silent cry of pleasure, and he leans his head back to rest on Thomas’s shoulder. _Go lower_ , he begs with his entire body, _slide your hand downwards, Thomas, jerk me off, make me come, it’s all right_ \- so far it’s only wishful thinking, but he can feel the other’s agonized breathing in his ear and knows that he too desires him, that he probably wants nothing more than to throw Guy on the floor and fuck him senseless in front of all those people.  
  
_"I wanna get higher, higher, higher, higher…"_  
  
It’s not as if they aren’t _allowed_ to, after all.  
  
A crash sounds behind them. Thomas and Guy both stop and look around, briefly shaken back to reality, only to see a couple lying on the floor, rolling about; they would look as if they were grievously injured if not for the look of drunken ecstasy on their faces. One hand reaches out and tugs hard on the other’s shirt, sending buttons flying everywhere, and by then it’s clear enough what they’re trying to do and what no one’s going to stop.  
  
(These were some fine buttons, too.  
Gold-edged, glinting dark mauve under the strobe like wine.)  
  
"Crazy bastards," someone is shouting, and a hoot of laughter can be heard before the crowd tightens to form a ring around the couple, at once protecting them from the rest of the club and yet giving them enough to space to both have their fun and let them be watched. Everyone else on the outside of that circle soon turns back and begins dancing again to the music, and that means that the two of them should, too. "That was hot," Thomas whispers again in Guy’s ear, making him shiver. "I bet you wish we were doing something like that too."  
  
He’s resuming his caresses with a vengeance, pulling Guy’s shirt half off his shoulder and kissing along the revealed skin before reaching down to his chest, licking up the faint trail of sweat glistening in the light and deftly peeling the sticker off from there. That’s the last one he takes, leaving Thomas as the only one who knows Guy’s weak spots. With every decisive touch and tug he’s stripping the other down to the minimum, taking into his possession Guy’s autonomy, making him feel more exposed than ever. Guy’s arching for it, burning for it, hovering between the edge of rationality and sensation; he doesn’t know, but this reckless abandon allows Thomas to play the role of a protector just as that of the tormentor, holding the older man closer while throwing warning glances towards everyone who looks at them even once.  
  
_"… Want it, need it, I need you to see it tonight!"_  
  
Then Thomas’s hands are on his chest again, palms caressing downwards before he slides them back up to pinch at his nipples through his shirt. “ _Ahh,_ " Guy cries out, bucking hard against the wave of pleasure; he grinds _hard_ against the other’s erection as a reflex, and Thomas can’t take it any more.  
  
_"Fuck,_ " his shout is audible amidst the noise, his voice thick and breaking with desperation. Guy starts and stares at him for a moment, doubtless having heard the thread of sanity snapping; the song ends, a cheer goes up from the dancers, and before Thomas can do anything else the older man slips past and runs along the edge of the pit, his feet thudding along the stairs, him groping for the handrails as he hurls himself out from the crowd. It would have looked like a case of the cold feet had he not turned around to fix the younger man in a wild stare at the top of the staircase, clearly wanting him to follow. They’ve had enough of everyone else. Thomas pushes past the others and hastily runs up the stairs himself, his eyes following Guy as they make their escape, their pace increasing. Soon they are past the bouncers and into the cold night air, full-on _sprinting_ down the street and across the bridge, where Thomas finally catches up with the other; he sweeps the older man into a passionate embrace, and they’re still laughing, right there with the night traffic rushing less than a few meters before them.  
  
"I’m deaf!" Guy cries in a mixture of French and English, sounding giddy and elated as he buries his face into Thomas’s chest. " _mon Dieu! Oh, my God!_ Thomas, I think I’m deaf!”  
  
Thomas might have replied, but the strong breeze cuts him short before he can do anything at all. Their laughter dies down, though they’re both still beaming from ear to ear; Thomas gazes into the other’s face, and even though they’re standing beneath the only streetlight that isn’t working along the bridge, he can see that the other’s expression is entirely unguarded - wild - _elated_. For once Guy is completely unsure of what’s about to happen next and unafraid of showing it. How strange it is, himself and a moody, analytical student like the other having been brought together like this, and how stranger it is to feel that this is the _correct_ way of things.  
  
He reaches out. Guy’s hair is warm and soft around his hands - just slightly damp with perspiration, but Thomas is beyond caring - and that’s the last thing he really registers before he closes his eyes, lifts the other’s face up and kisses him squarely on the mouth. Time slows down for just a moment and something in his chest seizes almost painfully, but all that goes away when he feels Guy _sighing_ ever-so-sweetly against his lips and arching into the kiss himself, tiptoeing slightly for comfort. It’s fantastic - adorable, even, though he wouldn’t say that aloud just yet - and he’s moaning into the contact, they _both_ are, his hands are groping and kneading the older man’s backside and Guy’s _letting_ him, this is _everything_ that he dreamed of and he wishes that they didn’t have such a vital need to breathe so that this could go on for ever.  
  
"I’ve never been quite this turned on in my life," Thomas gasps out when they break the kiss; they’re only centimeters apart still, close enough to feel the raw heat of each other’s lips. Guy grabs the front of his shirt and yanks him down for another kiss, and beside them the one blinded streetlight flickers brightly on and a blur of cars speed past, both as affirmative and violent as a climax.  
  
——-  
  
The walk - or rather, half-race - back to the apartment takes less than ten minutes. The door is crashed open and Thomas fumbles weakly for the switch while also clinging to a very giggly Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo; almost as soon as the apartment is lit up, the latter closes his eyes to protect them, taking advantage of that to push the younger man up against the wall and kissing him something fierce. The door isn’t even shut. “ _Zut alors_ ,” Thomas laughs weakly, toeing it closed and locking it with one hand the moment the kiss is broken. “I don’t know what they say about love being blind and all, Guy, but the neighbours sure _aren’t_.”  
  
"Take off your clothes."  
  
The younger man grins. “What, already? _Voila._ ”  
  
"Get in the shower. _Maintenant._ That is not a request.”  
  
"You sure, oh, I don’t want any more delays-"  
  
He’s cut off by Guy grabbing the front of his shirt and shoving him against the wall. “Listen to me, Thomas,” the long-haired man demands; his voice is completely calm and even lower in key compared to only a few seconds earlier, but his eyes are dark with desire and Thomas can feel the other’s fingers trembling uncontrollably as they bunch into his shirt. “that’s my way of telling you to _take your goddamn clothes off_ , drag me in with you, shove me up against the shower wall and kiss me like a meteor will wipe out Paris at any moment. It’s eleven o’clock, and a whole month after you so boldly approached me in the club you’ve finally gotten me to step foot in your home. I don’t think I can emphasize further how significant that is. Over twenty years of being on earth and I’ve never stood in front of someone begging them to fuck me until I’m incoherent, not until this night. And before the clock strikes twelve I want you to _carpe_ my _diem_ most vigorously, _est-ce que tu comprends?_ Ideally we should go past midnight, so that we can seize tomorrow while we’re at it, too. You had your hands all over me in that club and now that we’re alone I want you to _carry on_ ,” he roughly grabs Thomas’s hand and forcibly tugs it to the bulge in his trousers, and the younger man moans faintly at the sensation. “I’m giving up my autonomy for you, don’t you understand? I want you to hold my hands above my head and fuck me so hard that I bruise. I want you to own me, control me, possess me like you wanted on that first night. You and I, we both want more. Use me.”  
  
It’s a shame that he can’t pick up the older man and throw him onto the bed right now. He’s not sure whether he can physically do that, for one, and it’s not what Guy wants. So he compensates for it by grabbing the other’s hand from between his legs, pulling him insistently into the bedroom and demanding that he strip in so many words. (Namely, one.) “No, _you_ strip!” Guy retorts playfully, reaching for his shirt and unbuttoning it as if he were shelling peas; a small tussle and pretty soon they’re _both_ stripping, clothes thrown messily to the floor, though the older man’s jewelry stays on. Thomas rushes over to the bathroom to start the shower while Guy sets his watch down and takes out a small metallic container from deep inside his pocket; it’s where he keeps his condoms, up to five at a time. “Thomas, where do you keep your lubricant?”  
  
"First drawer, but we’ll get to that later. Come in."  
  
Reassured, he turns and enters the bathroom, straight into the shower where Thomas is waiting. The showerhead is detachable, thankfully, and he wordlessly puts his hand out for it so that he can wash the younger man first, taking in the sight of his naked body for the first time. He’s exactly as trim as he imagined, pale with a decent amount of body hair, just enough to add a pleasantly fuzzy feeling to his embraces. Guy’s appreciative enough, and shows it by tiptoeing and kissing him on the mouth.  
  
The taller man is going through a similar thought process, himself, though he can’t quite shake off some discomfort at seeing the rosy flush on the other’s cheeks and all over his body. “Are you all right?” Thomas asks worriedly when they break the kiss, taking the showerhead from the other’s hands. Guy gathers up his hair in one hand and lifts it up, and Thomas lets the warm water cascade down the back of his shoulders in response, at awe at the glossy softness of his hair visible even through the dim light of the bathroom. (He’s been dying to run his fingers through it for a while now.) “you’re… a bit… pink all over… you’re not too tired or-“  
  
"No, it’s the Kir," Guy moans as he turns his back on Thomas, leaning against his body. This does nothing to reassure the younger man - though the situation is quickly resolved with what Guy says next. "there’s something about wine that makes me warm all over, I drink it at night to help me sleep… it happens just with wine, honest."  
  
"… Only if you’re absolutely sure…"  
  
"Christ," Guy laughs shakily and leans further backwards, keeping perfect balance, his tone calm and lucid. His backside presses against Thomas’s erection, and the taller man groans, unwittingly wrapping his arms around the other’s waist to keep him in place. Guy’s body is warm from the wine and the heat of the shower; soon Thomas is going to be yet another reason for the rose-glow of his skin and he just can’t wait for that to be the case. "Thomas, I ran across several roads and halfway across a bridge before you even caught me. You’ve talked to me quite a few times while I was drinking wine on the phone, too, I like to think I’ve always been fairly clear. I’m not _drunk_.”  
  
"I-"  
  
Guy doesn’t let him continue. He just turns around to kiss up Thomas’s chest; their cocks brush and rub firmly against each other and the younger man throws his head back, moaning again.  
  
"Do what you want to me tonight," he breathes against his skin, now pressing one cheek against where his heart is, kissing in rough rhythm with its beat. " _je consens_ , Thomas, you’re always so damn cautious. Do you treat all your elders this way?”  
  
The shower is turned off.  
  
"I’m about to find out."  
  
Thomas slides open the door, walks out past Guy, and tosses him a large towel from the rack before fetching one for himself. His shoulders are tense with anticipation; noticing this, Guy quickly dries himself off first before approaching the other from behind, mopping the drops of water from his skin and hoping to reassure. Thomas shudders and drops the towel, looking back over his shoulder and into the other’s eyes for one long moment before beckoning him towards the bed. The sheets are clean - slightly rumpled and with Thomas’s warm scent embedded in them, but that only makes it better - and they roll atop it at the same time, instantly reaching for each other, enjoying the feel of naked skin against skin.  
  
"Oh, you’re cold," Thomas says softly, though there’s a teasing glint in his eyes. His thumb lightly grazes over the other’s nipple, and Guy gasps, his back arching slightly. "I’ve been a poor host. Dreadfully sorry - let me take care of that for you…"  
  
"W-wait…!" Guy protests weakly, letting out a whimper at the heat of Thomas’s breath. " _wait_ …!”  
  
But Thomas has had enough of waiting. He licks right over the tips of his nipples, feeling them perk and harden even more against his tongue, before tugging them lightly upwards with his lips. They are small, sweet and pink (almost like a _petit-four_ , he thinks), and evidently a very sensitive spot for Guy, judging purely by the soft mewls escaping the other’s mouth. “You look delicious, can I suck you off? Don’t hold back, either. You can be as loud as you want.”  
  
"You’re… ungh, _absolutely_ sure?”  
  
"What do I do for a living, Guillaume?"  
  
Guy lets out a quiet ‘oh’ and shivers without quite realizing it. That tone he had, the use of his full name - part of, anyway - that was _different. Exciting_. “… You’re a DJ.”  
  
” _C’est bien_. More generally speaking, I’m a _musician_ ,” Thomas gestures around the room. “and musicians don’t survive for long in this world if they don’t know how to keep their noises _indoors_. You understand, yes?”  
  
Come to think of it, Guy doesn’t recall hearing any outside noise since they’ve entered the bedroom. This is unusual, because Paris as a whole is a city full of noise and Thomas appears to live in one of its busier parts. What he’s been implying makes sense only then; “I get it,” he chuckles weakly. “I _get_ it, Thomas. How wonderful,” then he shields his eyes, his shoulders still shaking with mirth. “well, in that case - eat me and be done with it. _Bon appetit_.”  
  
Gladly done. Thomas jumps to it so quickly and efficiently that Guy really has to wonder how long he’s been thinking of doing this, later on. He kisses all over the erection first, lips barely pressing but touching in a warm staccato, just enough to make Guy feel assured about the fact that he is there. His hands are doing most of the work, stroking slowly, uncaring of how sticky with precum he is. When he’s licked for the first time he feels his member twitch firmly against the other’s lips, blushing in response. “Is - is your entire apartment soundproofed?”  
  
"No-" Thomas trails his tongue downwards and then back up along the length, soft and quick like a cat. "- just the bedroom-" Guy’s dripping all over his abdomen at the moment, and he gets to cleaning him up eagerly, revelling in the clean taste before swirling his tongue twice around the head. "- my parents helped me out there. Mm. You taste _good_.”  
  
"Happy to hear it," Guy chuckles, and arches luxuriously into the other’s mouth. "ahh, _fuck_ \- nnh - can you go down deeper? Please.”  
  
He doesn’t know, but there’s a first time for everything. Thomas tries it out, relaxing his throat as much as possible, finding (to both of their delights) that he actually _can_ , though not for too long. That will come with practice. The fact that it’s _Guy_ who he’s trying to please might have something to do with it, too. “I never managed to do that before tonight,” Thomas says hoarsely, wrapping his hand around the base of his member to make up for switching to shallower licks. “let’s hope I can keep it up in the future, knock on wood,” he knocks slightly at the headboard. Pause. “that’s not wood.” he brings his hand back down and strokes over the other’s length. “close enough.”  
  
Guy groans and shields his eyes. “I swear to God.”  
  
But silliness aside, Thomas is gentle, his mouth is warm and just the perfect kind of tight and it all feels good. Fairly soon desperate groans accompany his every exhale and his body begins to go taut, almost ready to come; the key word there being _almost_ , because the younger man still has so much in store and he’s not about to give him his release that easily. It is with almost painful abandon that he pulls off and lies down next to Guy, clearly intending to continue no further; the older man stares at him incredulously, panting, before opening his mouth to protest. “Shh, it’s all right. _Chéri_. I know, I know, shh.” Thomas coaxes, kissing him over his cheeks and over his mouth to silence him gently. “I promise to take you soon. But I can be self-centered sometimes and I want to feel like you just did, too. That’s not too unreasonable, _oui?_ I love the way you kiss me. I love the way your tongue feels on mine, how it flicks cigarette smoke back into your mouth, how you smile with those lips - I want to feel it all,” his fingers are running through the locks of Guy’s hair, gently coaxing him further down. “please, Guy. Please be good to me.”  
  
Admittedly, he’s not expecting a great deal out of the older man, only to slick him up enough to prepare for what comes next. He doesn’t even intend on pressing the issue for long; there’s no forcing anyone to do anything, the fact that he’s had an oral fixation with Guy’s perfectly-curved mouth since the episode with the madeleines can be addressed some other time. Guy’s glance flickers from his face down to his throbbing erection, then in one smooth decisive moment he pushes himself down and buries his face in Thomas’s lap, won over by his sincerity. If anything Guy’s probably better at sucking cock than he is: he breathes easily with it in his mouth, the movements of his tongue fluent and quick almost as if he were licking circumflexes on the surface, even teasing directly over his slit. Thomas would be commenting wryly on how he’d said that he wouldn’t ‘fuck him with his mouth’ only a few weeks ago if he weren’t already going out of his mind with pleasure. “ _Merci,_ " he whispers shakily and taps him a couple of times on the shoulder, just gently, as an indication that he ought to come back up. Guy does so, but not before grabbing the condoms from the bedside table and sitting up properly on the bed, frowning slightly as he scrutinizes the expiry dates on each.  
  
"Not until next September, we’re good," he fans them out on his palm. "extra thick - extra thin - this one’s ribbed, then plain, and this last one’s a close fit with extra lube. You can choose between any of them, but I always quite liked that one."  
  
"Then that one it is. Will you put it on me, please?"  
  
"The lube’s mint flavoured. Wonderful whichever way you end up using it," the long-haired man picks up the condom in question and holds it admiringly up in the air. "tastes fantastic, feels cool and lovely down there, what more can you ask for?"  
  
"I didn’t ask what was included in it, I asked if you would put it on me."  
  
"Every time I see a box of those I have to add it to my collection. Condoms nowadays, Thomas. So expensive."  
  
Thomas smacks his palm onto his forehead. “Will. You. Put. It. On. Me.”  
  
Their gazes meet, and after a pause, Guy smiles that unique schoolboyish smile of his again. (It’s only then that Thomas realizes that Guy’s tangent was performed entirely deliberately, just to throw him off.) With no further hesitation he tears the foil wrapper open with his teeth and pulls out the latex within it, pinching the tip closed and placing it over the other’s erection before rolling it down partway. Then he bends down and finishes the rest off with his mouth, plunging down the entire shaft and making Thomas groan in surprise, before raising his head with a dazed grin. “All yours,” he mumbles, and lays down on his back; the younger man is upon him within seconds, frantically tugging the first drawer open and reaching for the bottle of lube, spreading his legs and fitting himself closely between them.  
  
"Ready?" Thomas asks breathlessly; upon being answered with a nod, he leans down to press a kiss on his mouth, wanting to relax the other before doing anything else. Only afterwards does he move into position and slick himself up even more (he shivers at the cold sticky sensation of the lube, but that’ll be fixed soon) before prodding gently - and finally, _slowly_ , pushing in.  
  
As he’s being entered, the only sound Guy lets out is a faint sigh as he resists - then quickly gives into - that familiar feeling of impalement. “O- _ohh_ …” Thomas pants from above him, followed by a longer, softer moan as he slides in deep; he’s just the right size for him, and with the _right approach_ to boot. He’s very gentle with Guy, so that the intrusion doesn’t even hurt in the slightest - he feels stretched and tightly filled, and whenever Thomas breathes hard or moves even slightly, the sensation travels right through his body and makes him moan as well. The moment he feels the top of the other’s thighs pressing against him Guy knows that he’s in as deep as he can manage in his position, and shifts about slightly, trying to get comfortable around his cock; a slight roll of the younger man’s hips settles him into place, so hot and hard around the edges of him, filling him with lust and a desire to surrender totally to Thomas - even if that means sacrificing a chunk of his dignity. He’s never been an aggressive top or bottom either way, nor an entirely passive one, but with Thomas he wants to simply _give in_ , be fucked into the mattress until he can no longer see straight, tangle his fingers in his chocolate-auburn hair and never let go.  
  
All of that is sweet, but also kind of embarrassing to admit to himself.  
It is for that reason that immediately after Thomas fully enters him, Guy shudders, breathes out, relaxes - then covers his face with his hands, cheeks visibly pink even through his attempts at hiding.  
  
"What?" Thomas chuckles breathlessly, kissing over the back of his hands. "feeling shy, are you?"  
  
"Mm- _hmm_ …”  
  
"Excellent, so am I. Let me see you."  
  
He tries to gently pry his hands away, but Guy holds on. So he grabs him around the wrists instead, pistoning his hips rapidly into him, feeling his arms rapidly losing strength. “Ah-ahh…” Guy cries out, squirming at the unexpected thrusts and desperately trying to keep his composure; but eventually his arms drop, pinned down by Thomas to prevent him from covering his face again. His face is flushed, his eyes hooded and vulnerable; picture perfect, as far as Thomas is concerned.  
  
"Look at me," he whispers. Guy obeys, opening his eyes and gazing into his with what looks like a pout. "Guy. Oh, Guy, you’re so hot I can’t stand it."  
  
Aside from the first few quick thrusts, he moves slowly and deeply to begin with, establishing a four-by-four rhythm that they can both agree on. Guy is pleasantly tight, pliable, and surprisingly very agreeable to submitting so far. Remembering the first few times they’d met Thomas would have expected him to be more reluctant, but all he’s seeing right now is someone fully liberated, someone confident in their sexual appeal and willing to accept his partner’s as well. His acceptance only makes Thomas feel bolder, and he taps lightly at the other’s shoulder, kissing him luxuriously. “Mm, Guy… on your stomach, please…”  
  
” _Quoi?_ Oh. Not right now.”  
  
"Come on," he coos softly in Guy’s ear, kissing over the lobe; he pauses in his thrusts and settles for only slightly rolling his hips whilst deep inside instead, hoping that he might be able to frustrate the other into agreeing. "let’s be a little more adventurous. Please?"  
  
” _Au contraire._ I’m just fine where we’re at, let’s carry on.”  
  
All this is said in a totally deadpan tone, though Guy is still blushing heavily. To some extent he’s _holding back_ , whether it be words or passion or both he can’t tell.  
Then Thomas gets an idea; he smiles down at the shorter man, feigning innocence. “ _D’accord._ Though, let me-“  
  
Without hesitation he picks up and hitches the other’s left leg higher on his waist, forcefully tugging his hips closer and finding that this position allows him to thrust in deeper and harder than before. Guy yelps and a hot blush streaks against his cheeks; verbally stating his submission is one thing, actually being familiar with submission is quite another. He’s clearly not used to having this little control. Then Thomas nudges against his prostate and he squirms even more, gritting his teeth - before he suddenly _blurts_ out all the emotions he’s been holding in. “ _Merde! … Non,_ Thomas, no, that doesn’t mean _stop_ \- I - oh, God. Harder, please, _deeper,_ yes, yes, don’t stop… I want to come all over you, make me come, _please_ make me come. I want to shoot it all over you. Fuck me, don’t be afraid of hurting me - _oh, ich weiß nicht mehr, es ist mir egal!_ ”  
  
"Guy. _What._ That’s not even _French_.”  
  
The older man huffs. “Oh, _pardon_ me, were you expecting a recitation of Maupassant instead?” but he’s not annoyed or put off, as Thomas confirms when he feels him arch up to brush his mouth against his in a shaky kiss. Guy pants heavily as he sinks back down and sweeps his hair from his face, letting the younger man take control again. “you’ve - you make me feel dizzy, so much that I don’t know where I am, who I am, what day and year it is… you make me feel lost, do you understand? _Lost._ And - and I’m _glad_ for it! Ecstatic, even!”  
  
"Have I knocked you all the way back to freshman year?"  
  
_"Pour l’amour de Dieu, Thomas!"_ Guy shouts; he has lost all self-control. His teeth are faintly bared and the look in his eyes are wild. _"you’re fucking me positively irrational, that’s what you’re doing!"_  
  
_Irrational._ So it goes. Something in him snaps again; without further ado he pulls out completely and ignores Guy’s confused whimper, deftly grabbing his shoulder and turning him over so that he’s forced onto his hands and knees. He hastily kneels down before the other can even register what’s happening before pushing in roughly, taking him from behind just the way he wanted, a fresh wave of adrenaline washing over him at the hot tightness around him. Guy screams - actually screams, high and jarring, a primal sound Thomas never expected to hear from him. He stops dead in his tracks, thinking that this might have been a bad idea for only a second before the other’s cries become some variant of _what the fuck, Bangalter, you can’t just stop,_ and that’s an explicit enough way of consenting so he carries on.  
  
He doesn’t admit it often to himself, but whenever he’s on top and in this position, he feels fiercely dominating.  
Guy’s almost helpless beneath him while he can do almost anything to the other; it’s not so much a power balance as a power claim. Besides, it’s not even as if he needs to come out and admit it, as Guy discovers, it’s quite clear from the way he’s acting. He’s not quite _Thomas_ any more, that name would entail humanity and what he’s doing to him right now cannot be described as the actions of a human being; it’s a cross between something a step beyond that into paradise, and raw animalistic lust. The younger man is actively marking and biting him all over, his kisses becoming harsher and leaving dark bruises behind, his breaths labored and fierce behind him, at once intimidating and exciting. Once he reaches behind him to try gripping at Thomas’s hair and he actually _snarls_ in response, batting his hand away and pushing him forwards so that he’s just barely supporting himself on his elbows and presenting his backside fully.  
  
"You like it this way, don’t you?" he whispers, thrusting in with more force, knowing that he’s hitting the sweet spot each time by the way Guy moans. He increases the pace slightly, watching the other’s profile as he does so, looking for signs of his delight in what’s happening within him, bodies melding in heat and sweat. "hold still! Hold _still._ God _damn_. I don’t care what you say, I know you love it - I wish I had a mirror so you could watch yourself-“  
  
"Ah - _n-non, non,_ I…”  
  
” _Lies!_ " Thomas’s hand comes down on his left buttock with a sharp slap, and Guy cries out in ecstasy as he grabs his hips and thrusts in harder. " _now_ of all times you insist on being contrary! Don’t lie to me, Guy-Manuel, do you think I don’t know how you really feel? When you’re squeezing around me, begging for it-” he reaches down to grasp Guy’s erection in one hand, thumb slicking over the already-slippery head. “-when you’re hard and dripping all over the place-“  
  
"Oh _God_ , oh _mon Dieu_ , fuck - _Please_ -“  
  
"Please what? Please who exactly?" he squeezes tight, provoking a startled cry from the older man; something half like an orgasm shudders through Guy’s body, strong enough to have him clenching tightly around Thomas but different enough to know that he’s not about to come any time soon - so good, but not yet good enough, only a sweet dizzying torment. Precum drips warm and slow from the head of his cock and Thomas cups his fingers around it, coating them in the clear, sticky liquid. "taste yourself, Guy," he demands, pushing his fingers into his mouth. "lick it all off me. Then try telling me that you don’t want it, you won’t be able to. Tell me exactly how you want to be fucked, right here, right now."  
  
Guy resists. Looking back on this sometime later, he will be unable to explain why exactly he resisted, though he could reasonably describe what was going through his mind at that point. A myriad of thoughts rush through as he tastes the other’s fingers and the faint salt taste of himself in his mouth; he does nothing to either lick it off or to say anything, unable to sum up in coherent language what he wants done to him. To buy himself some time he finally closes his lips around his fingers and licks and sucks them clean, panting heavily, imagining that if he maintains this attitude Thomas at the very least isn’t going to _stop._  
  
But humans are not that predictable. “So you’re not going to say anything? That’s how it is, huh?” Thomas asks mock-incredulously, and then Guy finds himself most dreadfully surprised when he _actually_ does stop, beginning to slide out of him in oh-so-agonizingly slow a manner that for a moment he isn’t even sure that it’s happening. Emptiness is starting to settle in, along with a powerful, burning lust, every nerve in his body screaming out for his long-awaited fulfilment; in a panic he clenches around Thomas, wanting to keep him inside.  
  
"Thomas…!"  
  
"Say it," the other’s voice tickles his ear, soft, calm, but daring. He’s already left him more than halfway. "say it, or I’m going to pull out, and neither of us will get to come. How do you feel about that?"  
  
"Nngh - don’t, don’t play coy with me…!" Guy’s fingernails are digging into the sheets now, almost hard enough to tear the fabric. "I want it - _I want it, Thomas, give it to me!”_  
  
Give it to him Thomas does indeed, and in generous amounts. His hand reaches beneath him and pinches at one of his nipples, rolling the taut nub gently between the fingertips; Thomas is biting hard at the junction between Guy’s neck and shoulder, leaving pink toothmarks, wanting to make it as hard as possible for the older man to hide them. He might not be malicious, but as stated before, he’s possessive - he has no idea what Guy’s like at university, but he’s probably not the showy type with girls/boys hanging off him at every corner. He imagines, rather, that he’s the quiet hardworking type, the kind of person who no one suspects has a dark side; no one likely knows about how submissive he can be, how hard he likes being fucked, how his moans are in perfect pitch. Thomas is tempted to amend that, to mark his possession on him on every visible level. Guy’s nearly pressed flat onto the bed at this point, though, despite everything that _does_ clearly look uncomfortable- “Are you all right? Here - I’ll let you up a little, don’t want to break or dislocate anything now…”  
  
” _Merci fucking beaucoup_ ,” Guy mumbles as Thomas pauses in his movements; he awkwardly gets back into position while the younger man stifles a laugh behind his hand. “not that I was ever in danger of breaking anything in the first place.”  
  
"Hey, the adult human being has two hundred and six bones in their body and _all_ of them are precious,” Thomas pants, and then chuckles weakly. “well, the _average_ adult, that is. You, on the other hand, have two hundred and seven, including mine.”  
  
"That is the dumbest pick-up line I ever heard Jesus _fucking_ Christ you’re the worst Thomas oh my _God_ the worst and the _best_ I swear I love your cock inside me _fuck me_ fuck me fuck _you_ what the christ why do you make me feel this way Thomas _why won’t you let me come?!_ ”  
  
This earns him naught but a hoarse laugh and another slap on his buttocks. Guy huffs, but falls silent, figuring that he deserved that one. His entire body feels tight as a wire, with such a firm, dominating partner to please above him; but at the same time there is a boyish shyness in Thomas that prevents him from going too far. He could probably hurt Guy if he wanted to, he’s certainly taller and about as strong as he; but the point is that he _doesn’t want to_ , and is totally respectful of just how much autonomy the older man has relinquished to him. Any time Guy tenses up or his cries become a little sharper with pain, Thomas catches it and slows his thrusts a little, focusing on giving him pleasure elsewhere. Even when he closes his fingers into the shorter man’s hair he doesn’t tug, instead just holding him in place firmly but with care. And the more caring Thomas is the less reservations Guy holds about the situation, every single nerve in his body spasming and surrendering in ecstasy, no longer conscious of how his body’s moving or what he’s saying. He’s fairly sure he’s cursing up a storm (not necessarily in French), but then the younger man is too (entirely in French); they’re so deep in now that they can barely understand conversation or what it connotates, long since having passed that point. In fact, it’s to such an extent that for several agonizingly-blurred seconds Thomas can’t even find words for what he wants to say.  
  
"I want to come inside you," he eventually pants out, pulling out briefly to roll Guy onto his back again. The older man doesn’t protest this time, moving limply with Thomas’s touch and only letting out a faint groan when he’s entered once more and his legs are lifted up. His head lolls to the side; his eyes are glazed over, both staring straight into the other’s face and yet not seeing him. _We’ll see about that,_ Thomas thinks to himself as he slams inside Guy again, bending his head to lick over his nipples. He wants them to see eye to eye with other, and that means actually _perceiving_ , not ‘looking vaguely in the general direction of’. “but - but you first…”  
  
"Nnh," is all that Guy has to offer. But he blinks a few times, the light returning to his eyes - before he closes them again and arches up, capturing Thomas’s unexpecting lips with his own, kissing him so deeply yet softly that the younger man feels the forcefulness leave his body altogether. His kiss is undemanding and yet so full of barely-withheld temptation that Thomas finds himself whimpering into it, letting the older man’s hands cradle and stroke his face, his movements slowing into a gentle, luxurious rocking of the hips that offer more pleasure for Guy than for himself. When Guy pulls slowly away for breath, all Thomas does is to shiver and bury his face in the crook of his neck, seemingly reciting letters of the alphabet in random order under his breath. They seem to hold no meaning in themselves and Thomas is murmuring so quietly that the shorter man tunes him out within a minute or two, turning his full attention towards touch and heat alone. Just as well; Thomas is feeling the strain now, and has resorted to chanting the initials of his favourite musicians to distract himself, figuratively praying to his musical gods to _please_ let him not blow his load before Guy does.  
  
_\- DJ Hell, Louis Vega, K-Alexi, Dr. Dre-_  
  
Because, well.  
That would be _most_ impolite.  
  
Thomas groans, licking and nipping at the delicate skin of the other’s neck; he’s so close, and Guy’s expression right now is so arousing that one more look at him is probably going to make him come. It doesn’t take much to edge his arms beneath the other’s body so that they’re locked in a proper embrace, him holding the other man around the waist and supporting the back of his shoulders while Guy has his arms around his back. His bracelets are cold, rhythmically sliding against the skin of his back, the one thread linking him back to reality; without them he might have gotten entirely too lost in the other’s body to pay close attention to him, and he doesn’t want that. Not when it means that he can keep a lucid state of mind, aware of every squeeze and the harsh, building cries in the other’s throat, ready to cater for his inevitable climax.  
  
"Tho-" Guy tenses beneath him, eyes suddenly very wide and mouth agape with the sheer intensity of his orgasm. "Thoma - ah- _ahh_ …!”  
  
Thomas clenches his teeth and says nothing, not even when he feels Guy biting hard into his shoulder as he spurts messily all over their stomachs; there’s a lot of it from what he can feel, he must have been backed up for a long time. So much for good soundproofing. One final, deliberately-angled thrust and then he’s losing it, too, feeling suddenly as if his head was being hit by a pillow, too stunned to cry out or even do anything beyond gasping out his release. He’s faintly aware that Guy’s leaving scratches on his back, but little else, his eyes kept closed as he spills all that he has into the condom.  
  
It’s all over.  
  
He’s been biting his lip so hard that it’s become all bruised and raw. But compared to what he’s done to Guy, it’s nothing. Still panting, he looks up to get a spectacular view of the other’s orgasm face, a cross between raw appetite and lethargic bliss, his mouth fallen open from effort. He doesn’t seem to be registering Thomas yet. Aware that he’s becoming too heavy for the older man, he shifts his weight onto his elbows, then onto his hands, leaving him quickly but gently. As he does so he briefly fantasizes about what it would be like doing it bareback with him, coming deeply inside him and pulling out as slowly as possible after to let his seed leak out, making the other whimper and blush at the sight and feel of it staining his thighs and the sheets beneath. There’s no way that he’d admit that out loud yet - Guy would probably just smack him and call him a pervert, and there’s certainly not a chance in hell that he’d ever want to _humiliate_ the other. But sex transcends barriers and presuppositions between people to a degree otherwise unimaginable, if one lets it, and it’s probably fair to say that they’ve done exactly that just now. He ties off the condom, disposes of it in the bin, then fetches the towel from earlier to clean up the mess on his partner’s stomach before letting it drop on the floor and collapsing on the bed, finally free to let exhaustion take over whilst reflecting on what they’ve done.  
  
They are silent for a long time. All around them sounds return - mostly in terms of breathing and covers rustling, the room is too well soundproofed to let any outside noise through - and the night is deep and so quiet that Thomas can almost swear that he can hear their heart beating. What’s more, they might be beating _in sync_. There’s no way that they can check that simultaneously without a great deal of flexibility, though, so he mostly just closes his eyes and waits, wondering who’s going to speak up first.  
  
Silence. Nothing but silence. He ought to have put more thought into this part; even similar people have individual post-coital moods. He prefers to cuddle and talk after sex, but he’s had partners who weren’t as willing - hell, he’d even settle for just a hug, he’s perpetually thirsting for physical contact. Who knows, the long-haired man might turn out of be one of those types who simply roll over and go to sleep afterwards, and even though he’d be disappointed if that were the case, he would respect that. Guy is quiet, his chest barely even moving as he lies there - if not for his open eyes, Thomas would have suspected that he was already asleep.  
  
He extends an arm and cautiously strokes down the other’s chest, resting his hand on his stomach, a silent plea for attention. Guy closes his eyes, lets out a faint sigh, and opens them again before glancing over at his partner; his lips are faintly moving as a prelude to a question, and Thomas leans in. People say a lot of things after sex, including the cliched questions like ‘Are you okay?’, ‘Was that good for you?’ or ‘Do you want anything?’, but he’s very pleasantly surprised at what ends up being said regardless. Because when lovers ask such things, they really mean to communicate only _one_ universal message, and it is the exact one that Guy pinpoints as he turns to him and asks: “Are you _here?_ ”  
  
"I am," Thomas whispers. He reaches out and holds the other’s hand. "in the flesh."  
  
"Then hold me, for the love of all that exists, Thomas - _hold me_.”  
  
Thomas rolls to his side and clutches Guy to his chest.  
Being this close and still reveals a great many things that he didn’t notice before; Guy’s skin is smoother than his, tanned a light golden shade, and when Thomas runs a finger down the path of his spine he shudders and moans slightly. He must be ticklish. Thomas smiles, stroking down his damp hair with one hand and to the nape of his neck, toying with the thin silver chain there. It catches the faint light outside - from the moon, from the streets or elsewhere he cannot tell - and glints intermittently like the blinking of the stars or headlights of a car, rather. Thomas is reminded of the unending stream of traffic that ran alongside them before and during their first kiss, over the bridge and past it to destinations unknown, dark, yet doubtless meaningful.  
  
This is their trajectory. The younger man gazes down at Guy, recalling his euphoric expression as he stood on that bridge, breeze dancing about his hair and the sweetish-musty scent of the river all around them. How reverent one must be of all bridges, potentially unstable and terrifying to gaze out from its sides, but always a gateway to something new.  
  
_Build it up with gold and silver,_  
_Gold and silver, gold and silver._  
  
Whoever said that those two don’t go together? His grip on Guy’s body tightens possessively; he now has riches that no one else can lay claim to, and one that he has no intention of letting go. Regarding Guy he must both be generous and a miser, and even though he’s never felt this way about anyone he’s been with before, he already feels quite prepared to perform both roles.  
  
Such is life.  
Just being thrown into the thick of things, but coming out of it okay at the end.  
  
"Guillaume," he says. The word comes out hoarse and shaky. There’s no reply, either; well, then, there it is.  
  
_Build it up with gold and silver,_ he thinks dazedly as he buries his face into Guy’s hair and spirals downwards into nothingness. _My fair lady._  
  
——-  
  
The sun at its full strength heralds the thirtieth day.  
  
That distinction is important. _Day._ Defined as the ‘twenty-four hour period’, they’ve been acquainted with each other for thirty of them; defined as the ‘part of a twenty-four hour period where the sun is visible’, however, they’re only on their first. Guy is the first to wake, stirring in an unfamiliar-yet-pleasant bed, blinking sleepily for only a moment before sitting up with a blank frown.   
  
Morning has come. _The end of dreams._  
Or so he thinks that, anyway, until he looks to his side and sees Thomas there, sleeping quietly next to him. His lips are bruised, but smiling, his body a lightly freckled cream colour, soft and clean and entirely without shame. Guy stares for a moment, fascinated - the previous night had firmly driven the notion of Thomas being a ‘boy’ almost entirely out of his mind, but now that he’s seeing him in the light, it certainly seems that way. But it’s no longer in the immature or juvenile sense; no, more like full of life, full of potential, with much left to see and adore. When he pulls the blankets down slightly, he can see the other’s body in its slim, angular glory - and when he runs an inquisitive hand down his back Thomas shivers and purrs slightly before relaxing into the contact.  
  
He really can’t say that any of this was unexpected. A quick survey of his own body reveals an impressive patchwork of bruises and bitemarks, including at least one place where he actually bled and simply hadn’t noticed. His backside is sore; but that tends to be what comes with a night of rough passionate sex, so he decides not to put any mind to it, instead staring all around Thomas’s room. The place is just about as clean as his; it’s not _organized_ \- there are books and wires and pieces of musical equipment all over the corners, to say nothing of their clothes - but everything is discernible and indicative of someone who takes good care of himself. The curtains aren’t drawn and the sunlight will soon be strong inside the room, that’ll wake Thomas if nothing else.  
  
He looks around for his watch. Ten past eleven. Guy chuckles, thanks the heavens that it’s a weekend, and turns to look at Thomas some more.  
  
At some point, he remembers, he actually got up for a second shower. Perhaps around two or three in the morning, after having fallen into a brief post-coital slumber with his face buried in Thomas’s chest. He had stumbled into the bathroom in a daze, his entire body marred and aching pleasantly, before starting up the shower and walking directly into the cold spray; he hadn’t even noticed until later because he was just _that_ out of it. Guy closes his eyes and remembers the bathroom door opening behind him as he stood there, Thomas walking in with a towel wrapped around his waist, looking exhausted - but with a kind of determination as he reached into the medicine cabinet, pulling out a new toothbrush with a gold-plastic handle and carefully putting it into the toothbrush holder (next to his own silver-coloured toothbrush) before letting the towel drop and joining him in the shower. What came after that is even more of a blur in his mind - he remembers them kissing and lathering their bodies up with the washcloth, how Thomas had held the showerhead for him as he rinsed out his long hair, something about them fondling each other until the water grew cold, but none of it is particularly clear. He just knows that they were both willing and very, very sleepy. After brushing their teeth Guy might have asked about a hairdryer, and sat perched at the edge of the bath with it whilst the younger man collapsed and passed out naked on the bed again.  
  
Guy blinks a few times, and feels his hair. Slightly tangled and sticking up, but soft and smelling of tea-tree oil and lavender.  
They use the same brand of shampoo, apparently. He rakes his fingers slowly through his hair, combing it down slightly, before leaning back against the pillows. Thomas curls a little closer to him and he absent-mindedly strokes the other’s head, thinking about the toothbrushes in the bathroom. Two of them, one silver-coloured and the other gold, occupying the polar opposite ends of the holder. Neither he nor Thomas had made much of their significance earlier, being too focused on the act of actually brushing their teeth - hell, it’s not as if one usually reads matters of much significance from _toothbrushes_ , anyway. But the way Thomas so confidently unwrapped a new one for Guy, how he first set it down opposite his to complete some kind of domestic picture; the more he thinks about it, the more happy he feels.  
  
Thomas wouldn’t have gone that far if he thought Guy would only be coming over once or twice.  
No, he clearly wants the two of them here again, and again; Thomas wants him to _stay_ , long enough to warrant his own toothbrush and mugs and half of the bed, to etch their presence on one another’s bodies and souls, carving out a space custom-fitted for each of them.  
  
And really, all things considered, he would entirely be for that.  
  
Guy smiles faintly, and pushes the blankets off him. He needs a smoke. He can open the window and lean over; he’s just about to seek out his pack of cigarettes amidst the pile of his discarded clothing when he feels a warm hand searching out his. “Hm?” he inquires softly, and when Thomas peeks out softly from beneath the covers, lets out a soft laugh. “I wasn’t leaving, I just wanted a smoke. Go back to sleep.”  
  
Thomas shakes his head sleepily. His fingers drift to the spaces between Guy’s and settle there, closing oh-so-soft like a dove’s wings between them, holding him in place. “Nnh. _Non._ Don’t go,” he inclines his head towards the ashtray on the bedside table. “do it here. I don’t mind.”  
  
"But I might catch the bed on fire?"  
  
There is no reply to this; Thomas just carries on looking longingly at him. As previously mentioned, Guy isn’t very fond of being stared at - but there is something so _open_ about the other’s gaze, both unrelenting desire and a kind of furtiveness that comes after intimacy reflected in total sincerity, that he finds himself admiring Thomas more than anything. In a world of confusion and disorder, honesty is a virtue. Keeping their hands locked, Guy reaches out with a foot to nudge his trousers closer to him, stooping to pick it up and searching the pockets. It’s somewhat awkward to do with one hand, but he too likes the reassurance of Thomas holding the other one, and the younger man is so completely unapologetic about doing so that deep inside Guy knows that there is something _right_ about the whole business. He’s just put a cigarette in his mouth and about to light up when Thomas speaks again. “Can I share?”  
  
"Would you like one? Don’t know if you like Gauloises."  
  
"It can be anything, but I actually want to _share_. As in, the _exact_ cigarette that you place your lips on. The smoke’s not the only thing I want to taste.”  
  
Guy chuckles, amused but also quite flattered; he gets into bed proper, covering himself back up to his chest before picking up the ashtray from the side. Thomas’s body is heated from having cuddled up to thick blankets and Guy’s warmth all night; he rolls over to his side to lie on the older man’s chest, nuzzling slightly like a cat. His desires satisfied, his demeanour has also regressed into a kind of vulnerable shyness, leaving slow soft-pecked kisses on Guy’s chest and neck and clinging to him longingly. He pays extra attention to the marks he left on the older man, nuzzling a lovebite near his collarbone and then blushing pink as if he couldn’t quite believe that he was responsible for it.  
  
It really is endearing. Guy grins lazily down at him. “You animal.”  
  
Thomas immediately turns red from the comment, letting out a small ‘nnh’ and hiding himself beneath the covers entirely. Guy laughs out loud, holding the ashtray close as he lights up and inhales the smoke deeply. “Thomas,” he says, breathing quickly out as he tends to do. He doesn’t often taste the very first smoke, finding it too bitter for his tastes; it’s best to let the flavour develop as it goes along.  
  
"Yes?" the younger man mumbles from beneath the sheets. A small, curly lock of his hair is poking out from the gap and Guy reaches for it, lightly rolling it around his finger and forcing Thomas to squirm and re-emerge. Smirking, he places his lips on the cigarette once more and takes the longest inhale, staring into Thomas’s eyes. "oh, good… can I-"  
  
He doesn’t get the luxury of finishing his sentence. Guy stops inhaling, holds the smoke in and deftly pins the still-smouldering cigarette on the groove of the ashtray; then he leans over Thomas and kisses him firmly, caressing his cheek and coaxing his lips open, blowing the pearly fumes into his mouth. The younger man starts - then moans into the smoky kiss, the tips of their tongues touching, lost in the blissful taste of nicotine. When he asked to share, this was not what he’d had in mind; but it’s good, different but _good_ , the smoke combining with Guy’s sweet, quiet breath, cantarella for his soul. He’s reaching, grabbing, mouthing _more_ against the other’s skin - Thomas leans his head back when Guy pulls away, his neck slender and taut on the pillows, parting his lips softly to exhale the diluted smoke. Part of him is loath to even exhale, afraid to let go of anything from Guy; thankfully the older man remains close, paying full attention to kissing over his cheeks and down to his neck.  
  
"Guy…"  
  
Those lips have left his throat now, leaving alternating feather-soft and biting kisses in a trail down to his chest. Thomas whines, impatiently begging for more, though Guy’s too stoic to take any notice. He closes his mouth on the patch of skin just above where the heart is, marking it, fancying that he can feel the dull pounding of the organ beneath it before lifting his head up. Their eyes meet, and Guy gives him a smile - an odd one, more centered in the eyes than the corners of his mouth - before glancing downwards. Thomas is terribly aroused by now, his erection stiff and nipples visibly hardened into nubs, and as he follows the other’s gaze he knows what he has in mind.  
  
_"Guy,"_ he half-moans and pleads. The older man takes little notice, eyes fluttering shut again as he slowly - _too_ slowly - lowers his head and breathes gently over the skin of his chest. Then he grins, all too mischievously, before reaching to lick with his tongue - only to pause just before contact. “please. Please don’t stop, Guillaume, _I’m begging you_.”  
  
The tip of his tongue is velvet-soft as it brushes, barely, just barely over the tips of his nipples. Unlike Thomas he doesn’t lick, almost making it a contest with himself as to how slight he can make those touches; but they are there, and absolutely _maddening_. He’s about to push the other’s head down and maybe even beg to feel him deep inside when Guy suddenly pulls away. “Patience,” he says, deadpan but with twinkling eyes as he echoes Thomas’s reprimand to him earlier, before returning to his cigarette as if nothing happened. The younger man stares at him - perhaps he wants to be indignant at being denied like this, but all that he can muster is a pitiful whimper. “everything has a rightful order, Thomas. We haven’t even greeted each other good morning yet, let alone a spot of breakfast. Though,” he pauses, tasting the smoke thoughtfully. “… it’s admittedly too late for it to be a _matin_.”  
  
A quick glance at the window proves this to be the case. The sun is high and shining through fully, and Thomas winces at the intense brightness before looking away, annoyed. Damn the sun; must to its motions their minutes, hours, and seasons run? He’d be tempted to get out of bed and close the curtains if it wasn’t so warm and pleasant, being next to Guy. When he sits up properly and pulls the older man into an embrace, kissing over his bare shoulder lightly, he’s rewarded with a soft chuckle and his share of the cigarette at last. “Mm,” he murmurs, exhales the smoke, and buries his face in the crook of Guy’s neck again. “are you hungry?”  
  
"Somewhat. Why, what did you have in mind?"  
  
"Coffee, for starters. Strong and black just the way you like it, if you wish, or with cream and sugar, if you wish. I didn’t bake any madeleines so far this week - I think right now is a good time for it, non?" Thomas grins, watching the other’s eyes light up. "I know I said that I take them with tea, but they don’t do too badly with jam, either - especially hot and soft, right out of the oven. I’d love it if we could stay in bed, too. And afterwards we’ll probably shower… together, if you want…" kiss. "get dressed… then… I’d like you to take me home."  
  
"I - what? You _are_ at home already.”  
  
The taller man smiles shyly. “I want to see your place. I’m interested in how you live,” he reaches down to inhale again from the offered cigarette. “and when we get there I want to look around and find your bed… bury myself in it and go to sleep, just like that… it’ll smell of you all over, that’s where I want to be.”  
  
He’s now verging into the realm of the fantastical, perhaps even cloying. Thankfully Guy doesn’t seem to think of it in that way, even though he drips with practicality. “It’s not at its cleanest right now,” he answers simply.  
  
"I’ll help you with it. You don’t strike me as the stereotypical messy student."  
  
"And I’m not. All right then, my place it is, maybe we can finish off what I started there," Guy laughs, and turns his head to kiss Thomas’s cheek gently. "mmh, though I must admit I’m looking forward to those madeleines a little more. I haven’t had breakfast in bed for years."  
  
"Stay with me and you’ll have all the breakfasts in bed that you could reasonably want."  
  
Guy looks sidelong at Thomas. “My,” he says. The cigarette has been smoked down to the filter, and he puts it out completely. “what _are_ you implying, I wonder?”  
  
_What am I implying?_  
  
He knows exactly what. After all it’s not exactly a difficult thing, what Thomas is trying to communicate. But the sun is shining fully through the windows now; it’s bathing Guy’s body in golden light, his hair an auburn halo, a honeyed catlike gleam in his eyes as he smiles brightly. This too is by no means a complex sight, but it’s beautiful nonetheless - Guy’s in front of _him_ , he’s all _his_ to look and possess and adore and no one else’s - and for a minute he’s rendered quite speechless, just staring at him with a mixture of hunger and dazed admiration. It only makes it better that for once, Guy is completely patient, happy to sit and admire him in turn; nothing can break them out of their midday reverie.  
  
” _Petit-ami?_ " is the only thing Thomas manages to utter after a while. Immediately he blushes, unsure whether Guy would want to take him seriously; and the older man, in his typical fashion, doesn’t.  
  
” _Petit-ami_ what,” he teases playfully. “use _proper sentences_ , Thomas, I can’t understand what you’re saying.”  
  
"You know what I meant," the taller man protests weakly, but nevertheless sits up straight and clears his throat, wanting to be as proper as he can reasonably manage whilst naked and vulnerable. "Guy," he says, then takes a breath, taking one of the other’s hands in both of his own before looking straight into his eyes. "by _petit-ami,_ I wasn’t just throwing the word around randomly. I want a lot of things and you happen to be one of them.”  
  
"I want to wake up next to you," he kisses over the back of Guy’s hand. "sit outside of the door when you’re taking a bath, ready to pass you towels or books or champagne," kiss. "take pictures of you," the older man blushes, and he links their fingers together, voice becoming ever softer and earnest. "sit on the steps smoking until your classes are over and I can pick you up. Invite you to my gigs. Be invited to _your_ gigs when summer comes. Sample your voice and use it in all my pieces so I can always carry around something of you with me. Stare at your sex face. Trail your hair between my fingers. I want to want you in the mornings while still letting you sleep - I want you to take me on the kitchen floor while the madeleines are baking, then relax after with those as a hot breakfast while lying with my face pressed to your chest - I want to _create_ with you, become your muse while you become mine.”  
  
"So you see."  
  
"I wasn’t just throwing words around, as I said."  
  
A knot of pressure loosens in his chest, now that he’s managed to utter something of his feelings; but the most important part is still to come. “… Rather, I was asking if you’d let me be yours from now on. Guillaume. _Veux-tu sortir avec moi?_ ”  
  
Guy considers for a moment or two. His expression is serene, but he’s clearly affected, bewildered fragments of thought almost visible behind his eyes. Thomas waits anxiously, biting his lip; he’s certain that he wouldn’t be able to handle this rejection, should it occur. _Please,_ he thinks to himself, closing his eyes. He won’t actually cling to him and beg even if it comes to the worst, but damn it all, it’ll be hard not to. _Please…_  
  
Though, ultimately, it turns out he needn’t have worried. Guy slowly eases his hand out of the other’s grip and takes off one of his silver bracelets, scrutinizes both for a moment - and slips the one that he pulled off around Thomas’s wrist. Then he lies back down, his expression carefully neutral to hide the anticipation (and slight fear of rejection) behind it, a facade admirably kept even as he watches the other’s astonished face.  
  
"Silver suits you," he says with a wise nod, then lifts Thomas’s hand up to kiss the back of it, only then letting the glimmer of a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. "and I daresay _I_ would, too - if you’d have me.”  
  
"Oh _yes_ ,” Thomas cries out as he throws his arms around him, a movement reciprocated swiftly (alongside a laugh and nuzzle) by the other. “yes, of course, for as long as you want me. Thank you, Guy, oh, God…”  
  
He never thought of Guy as the overly cuddly type, but there he is now, his face buried in his shoulder and his hair falling about in a soft-scented sweep as they embrace. With him it’s more actions than language - he’s expressing his gratitude and affection for Thomas with his body, and that’s all that needs to be ‘said’ lest they end up reducing the value of their words. “I really _should_ get to the madeleines,” Thomas whispers; he’s grinning from ear to ear. “I can’t well starve my boyfriend, can I?”  
  
"Said boyfriend _would_ like some madeleines, but he would much prefer that you stay a while. Right here. Right now. What do you say to that?”  
  
What can be defined as a ‘while’ varies a great deal depending on the timeframe. They don’t know that when Christmas comes, for example, that they will still be together and celebrating it on their own, and that Thomas in turn will be granted the gift of seeing Guy’s surprised-and-delighted expression when _he_ binds the other to him with a gold chain and pendant around his neck. But that’s a tale for another time; what matters is that the older man has accepted, that their paths have crossed and converged into one that they have every intention of following.  
  
_Together._ They are no longer two strangers passing each other in the night.  
They aren’t even two _lovers_ , the word is too temporary for them; they are _one_ who once weren’t, as complete and final as the rotation of a compass, with no sense of where one of them ends and the other begins. Their bracelets clink together as they embrace and their mouths brush, sharing the occasional lusty caresses - their breaths and heat mingling into one - sustained by the same air and vital force, flourishing in the light.  
  
"You’re so beautiful like this," Thomas breathes against Guy’s lips; his arms are tight around his waist, pulling him on top, trying to assure himself of his new reality. He’s holding the other’s left hand in both of his with a look of complete adoration on his face; Guy cups his face with his right hand in response, caressing his cheek, chuckling as Thomas kisses and trails his tongue slightly against his bare palm. "we can see each other at all hours, now, right? I want… more than anything… more days like those, waking up with you next to me, not just gaining and losing you at night. Being able to hold you like this with the sunlight warming you up, being able to begin my day with you as well as ending it. Oh, _Guy._ Do you feel the same?”  
  
"Don’t I know it," Guy whispers, and bends his head to kiss his eyelids, long hair fluttering down to tickle the other’s face. "and to celebrate that - _bonjour,_ my Thomas, for the first time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no ‘I love you’ because they didn’t need to say it.  
> Not every love story ends with a realization and declaration of love. Sometimes those words come in time, sometimes they’re taken in vain; sometimes they are realized but never voiced because there is no necessity for it.
> 
> Writing this was a great honour and experience. I hope you enjoyed all of that! Again, this chapter has notes, but there are too many of them so I have moved it to the third 'chapter'. I would recommend giving them a read through, though with all luck none of them should have been necessary to understand the fic. Thank you very much for reading!


	3. Bibliography + Notes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who wish to take a dip in a boatload of references, don't believe in the death of the author, or just seeking to know what the hell was going through my mind.

**Bibliography:**   
  


  * Barthes, R., 2000. _Camera Lucida._ London: Vintage. (' _Punctum_ ', the nightclub Thomas DJs in, is named after the concept in this book. Roland Barthes' conception of the _punctum_ is the 'intense, personal 'wounding' feeling that you receive when you look at a photo and are thus connected to it'; its contrast is the _studium,_ which is the overall political/linguistical/cultural interpretation of a photo. The _punctum_ is essentially private, whilst the _studium_ is not.)
  * Barthes, R., 1975. _The Pleasure of the Text._ New York: Hill and Wang. ( _Jouissance_ is a key term in this text; there is no English equivalent. In French it means something like 'bliss', which is the term this translation used, but _jouissance_ connotates both enjoyment of a situation/property and sexual orgasm. This double connotation is missing in English.)
  * Beckett, S., 2006. 'Endgame', in _The Complete Dramatic Works of Samuel Beckett._ London: Faber and Faber. (Certain motifs and repeated phrases like 'something is taking its course' are taken from this play. When things go kind of metafiction-y, this play is being referred to most of the time, e.g. when Thomas asks Guy whether they are not 'beginning to mean something', a conversation that occurs in 'Endgame' between Hamm and Clov.)
  * Beckett, S., 2006. _Waiting for Godot._ London: Faber and Faber. (This was the main inspiration of this story. 'Two guys, French in origin, sitting around letting life pass them by, wondering what to do and what all this is about' is pretty much the summary of both this story and Waiting for Godot. When Thomas and Guy sling ' _Adieu'_ s and ' _Que voulez-vous_ 's back and forth at each other, that's a direct callback to WFG.)
  * Camus, A., 2000. _The Outsider._ London: Penguin. (Thomas begins the eighth night by greeting Guy as _'étranger'; 'L'étranger'_ is the original title of 'The Outsider/Stranger', and the scenario Guy talks about re: cause and effect is exactly what the protagonist Meursault does in the novel.)
  * Eliot, T. S., 2002. 'The Waste Land' from _Collected Poems 1909-1062_. London: Faber and Faber. (The description of Paris as an 'unreal city' is inspired by a few lines from T. S. Eliot's 'The Waste Land', as are some of the imagery in Thomas's bridge scene.)
  * Giraud, A., 2001. _Pierrot Lunaire._ Kirksville: Truman State University Press. (The titular novel, Thomas's scene on the bridge and the thematic center of this fic is based heavily on the poems in here. If you're interested in the symbolism of _Commedia dell'Arte_ or [_fin-de-siecle_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fin-de-si%C3%A8cle) literature I would recommend this wholeheartedly.)
  * Kafka, F., 1992. _The Complete Short Stories of Franz Kafka._ London: Vintage. (The traffic rushing over the bridge was inspired by Franz Kafka's story, ' _Das Urteil'_. Kafka himself said that he was thinking of a 'violent ejaculation' when writing it.)
  * Proust, M., 2003. _In Search of Lost Time: Vol 1: Swann's Way_. New York: Viking. (Madeleines are used as an example of an involuntary flashback in the first section of ' _À la recherche du temps perdu'._ It's quite a famous episode.)
  * Sartre, J. P., 2003. _Being and Nothingness._ London: Routledge. ('Not-being-Thomas' and the concept of 'meaningful nothingness' is taken from the first chapter of this book. Sartre describes a very similar scenario, involving a meeting with 'Pierre' where 'Pierre' simply fails to arrive. He goes on and on and on and on about this Pierre and how he's not there, and how his absence highlights his existence-in-the-world so much more.)
  * Sartre, J. P., 2000. _Nausea._ London: Penguin. (The kind-of-wtf metaphysical contemplation Guy achieves whilst watching paint dry is a homage to this book. Even the song featured is the same one Sartre wrote about - existentialists place a great deal of value on artistic creation as an affirmation of existence and authenticity, and jazz was used by Sartre as a primary example.)



  
**Misc. Notes - Nights 1-10**   
  


  * Symptoms of methanol poisoning primarily include blindness; it will break down into formic acid in the body, which will destroy the optic nerve. And more, of course, if you let it.
  * '... determined spirit of the French Resistance' is re: the writers who I was most influenced by whilst writing this. Beckett, Camus and Sartre were all members of the French Resistance during WWII, in Occupied France.
  * Indeterminism is the philosophical thesis that events are not caused by prior events, i.e. everything is up to chance.
  * The entirety of the sixth night is credit to [@algebrasunshine](http://tmblr.co/m7AFWZXRsjB-z-Ts8WCdY3w), who suggested in an ask that I could write a 'play by play of paint drying' and it would still be interesting. So I then had to write a play by play of paint drying. I hope it was indeed interesting.
  * The jazz standard that Guy hears is ['Some Of These Days'](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Some_of_These_Days), dating from 1910; again, it is the exact song paid tribute to in Sartre's Nausea.
  * French francs were replaced in 1999 by the Euro. That required amount and conversion is accurate; approximately 6.5 francs are in a euro, so I'd say if anything Thomas didn't tip as generously as he could have. It's hard for me to get an accurate reference as how much drinks cost back then, honestly, because it's a dead currency...
  * It's part of my headcanon that Guy and Thomas both have _excellent_ relative pitch, if not absolute. Guy picks up the out-of-tune nuances quicker because he's the one who's primarily a guitarist, but they can both do it with ease. Musicians can develop relative pitch due to a lot of practice, it's not particularly a rare phenomenon. Great minds are alike and complain about the same things, too.
  * I based Guy's pronunciation of 'Bangalter' off his Portuguese origin. The normal French 'r' is a guttural rhotic like German, pronounced at the back of the throat; Portuguese has a great deal more ways to pronounce 'r's, and the one Guy utilizes is the alveolar trill. The Italian 'r' comes to mind.



  
**Misc. Notes - Nights 11-20**   
  


  * 'Tall, dark and extremely handsome' is taken directly from one of Guy's spectacularly sassy moments during an interview.
  * This is more a question to French speakers than a note: is this transition to ' _tu'_ from ' _vous_ ' done within a reasonable timeframe? It's not too early for them? Formality affects the way people speak to each other and I seek to preserve this when possible.
  * The Japanese writer Haruki Murakami talked about the philosophy of making a whiskey on the rocks in one of his very early essays. I can't find it now nor source it, I didn't read it in English and it's been over two years - but it was definitely an inspiration. I'll stick this in the bibliography if I find it one day.
  * I didn't specify where they were, because I'm not all that familiar with the city; but the bells that they hear are from the Notre-Dame de Paris, and they are always near bridges across the Seine, so they're possibly around the 4th arrondissement somewhere. They are both (theoretically) right [when they name the keys the bells ring in](http://www.notredamedeparis.fr/Cathedral-figures) \- when Guy specifies E-flat, Antoinette-Charlotte was ringing, and when Thomas named F Hyacinthe-Jeanne was ringing. I say theoretically because these bells were replaced in 2013 for being old and ringing out of tune and I doubt they sounded like they were supposed to sound even in the 90s.
  * The numbers game involves the confusing nature of French numbers. (Explained for those who don't know any French.) French telephone numbers are 10 digits with the first two corresponding to your region, and are recited generally in double digits (e.g. 63 -> not _'six et trois_ ' but ' _soixante-trois_ ', like 'sixty-three'). However from 70 onwards they begin to count in ways that resemble mathematical sums - 70 is ' _soixante-dix_ / 60 +10', 80 is ' _quatre-vingt_ / 4 x 20' and 90 is ' _quatre-vingt-dix_ / [4 x 20] + 10' and so on. They're in Paris so the first two digits are 01; depending on Thomas's pace of speech the sequence of numbers he gave could have been interpreted as '010420-' or '01080-', which is a big difference!
  * The official written representations of RAM titles are in Guy's handwriting, which is quite frankly handwriting I would kill to have. It's fantastic.
  * Guy suffers from mild [alcohol flush syndrome](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alcohol_flush_reaction). This is headcanon entirely; but I myself suffer this. >/////< It's always worse with wine.



  
**Misc. Notes - Nights 16-21**   
  


  * It is indeed possible to bike to Germany from France if you're in the right region, but I'm sure this is of no surprise to fellow Europeans. Alsatian applecake ( _[Elsässer Apfelkuchen](http://germanfood.about.com/od/baking/r/applecakerecipe.htm)_ ) comes from Alsace-Lorraine, the region bordering the two. I didn't know this until I was writing this part, but apparently madeleines hail from there too!
  * I intended to do more research and go into detail about Thomas's mixes, but I didn't in the end because I was too lazy. So just 'sexy music' it is. (If it helps I was listening to a lot of K-Pop when I was writing it?)
  * ' _Dites-moi_ ' is a song from the musical 'South Pacific'. Lyrics are as stated, and translate to: 'Tell me why life is beautiful / is it because you love me?'
  * Thomas's section needs some explaining. The pierrot is a pantomime character in the _Commedia dell'Arte_ and the Parisian _Comedie-Italienne_ tradition and artists and writers have since interpreted his character to be that of innocence/naivete in an increasingly hostile world, holding onto his trust and adoration (sometimes tragically) and trying to leave a metaphorical thumbprint in the fabric of the universe before his end. In short, the pierrot is one of the most enduring creator-analogues in existence. 'Sad clowns' like Vladimir and Estragon in Waiting for Godot, and to an extent ourselves in a meaningless world that is expressed by existentialism are all captured within his character. ' _[Pierrot Lunaire](http://www.da-capo.org/html/PierrotEnglish.html)_ ' means 'Moonstruck Pierrot' - and those two youths with no particular idea of where they were going before they met each other, they meet each other only by moonlight - they seek purpose in one another and in themselves. Are we to an extent not doing the same when we meet others, drifting through life?
  * A great deal of the imagery in the bridge scene is inspired by a mixture of T. S. Eliot's 'The Waste Land', Tennessee Williams' 'A Streetcar Named Desire' and the titular 'Pierrot Lunaire'. Noted for personal reference.
  * You might be familiar with _solfège_ as the 'do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-ti/si' system of musical notation.
  * ' _Au clair de la lune_ ' is a popular French folk song. The lyrics are actually quite sexually suggestive, despite it being used often as a lullaby. First line of that song, too, is actually ' _au clair de la lune, **mon ami Pierrot**_ '.



  
**Misc. Notes - Nights 22-30**   
  


  * AE (Artificial Emotions) and emotions-as-utility are all genuine questions in the philosophy of AI; Hans Moravec is an advocate of the latter view. I wouldn't agree fully with that view, but acknowledge that that would actually still mean that machines are capable of emotional states. Mostly just included so I can have some robotic themes in this fic. It's DP after all.
  * I italicized the English conversation because to them, _English is a foreign language_. This is one thing that often goes amiss in multilanguage fics, I think; I miss it too, if I write in my native language I would have to italicize or otherwise indicate any English text as 'unusual', but I don't think about that aspect very often.
  * The French word ' _excuse_ ' covers both connotations of 'apology' and 'excuse'; for Thomas to convey just 'apology' in this text, French alone wouldn't have sufficed. Likewise with 'embrace', which appears to have no direct French equivalent - I found the very literal _'étreinte_ ' and the phrase _'prendre dans ses bras_ ', but not a single word that could serve the purpose. So English it is.
  * Refer to 'Teachers' from DP's first album: '... _Todd Edward's in the house, **Romanthony's** in the house_.' The song that Thomas and Guy dance to is the late Romanthony's 'Make This Love Right' (1993), roughly around the time they were getting into electronic music in real life. Romanthony was also the vocalist for 'Too Long' and 'One More Time'; may he rest in peace.
  * _Carpe diem_ means 'seize the day'; doubtless many of you are already familiar with it in some form, but I note it here regardless.
  * Kir is a cocktail made of white wine and creme du cassis. With the aforementioned Guy's alcohol flush syndrome, it would have left him blushing for a while; just enough, anyway, 'Make This Love Right' depending on mix is anywhere from five to just over ten minutes and they escape not long after that. So really, they weren't even in there for a long time.
  * I must admit to applying what may be an anachronism re: condoms. The ones described during Guy's tangent are Durex-brand condoms available in Europe as of 2014, but I have no idea if they even produced close-fit or extra thin condoms in the early 1990s and information on that is understandably scarce, so... so anachronism it is.
  * Guy's German utterance translates to 'Oh, I don't even know anymore, I don't care!'.
  * Thomas is reciting what would become the lyrics of 'Teachers'! DJs on the low, eh? > w <
  * Thomas's opinion on the sun is based off John Donne's poem ['The Sun Rising'](http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/donne/sunrising.htm).
  * This is the first ' _bonjour_ ' in the entire fic, compared to countless 'bonsoir's. 'Good day' versus 'good evening'. I'm fascinated with the light/dark binary in DP - Pierrot Lunaire is a lot of things, but if I had to pick out a primary theme at gunpoint, I would choose that one.



 


End file.
